by James Wilde
Karas walked to the end of the bed. Juliana opened her lips, and opened her legs.
‘Take me,’ she pressed. ‘You will never forget this night, I promise.’
‘Your spy is dead.’
Taken aback by his comment, Juliana gave a puzzled laugh. ‘Spy? I know of no spy.’
‘He watched me so you could be sure of my movements. So you could be ready and waiting here for me.’
‘I only want you.’
‘You are a whore. I know it. I have heard the whispers in the taverns. You think you can bend any man to your will by spreading your legs.’
Juliana was stung, her cheeks reddening.
Karas showed a cold face. ‘I am not my brother. I do not have his inhuman tastes. Power is all that concerns me.’
Juliana’s smile faded. A small knit formed in her perfect brow. Karas could see she had not anticipated this response. He guessed she had never known rejection before, certainly not when she had offered herself so brazenly.
Karas twitched, a snarl leaping to his lips. ‘You think I can be bought so cheaply? By a cunt that has been used to subdue any man you wish to quash? At Manzikert, I slaughtered so many their blood washed around my knees. I have choked the life from children, and thrown women into torrents to achieve my heart’s desire. I do not waver when some woman spreads her thighs. I am not weak. Nothing – not my cock, not love, not fear, not greed – nothing moves me from the road I travel to seize what I want. And certainly not some child who gives herself value when she has none. I have had a hundred whores better than you. You are nothing to me.’ Raising one arm, he clenched his fingers as if he were crushing her windpipe. ‘Your life means nothing to me.’
Juliana’s face darkened. She drew her legs up, but she was still naked in her humiliation.
Plucking up her dress from the stool beside the bed, Karas flung it at her. ‘Cover yourself. You bring shame upon your head. And it sickens me to look at you.’
With a murderous scowl, Juliana wriggled into her dress. ‘You will regret this, Karas Verinus,’ she hissed.
‘You are so used to seeing men fall to your charms, you forget who you deal with.’ His voice became a growl. She saw something in his face at that moment. He watched her eyes widen and her mouth pop into an O. ‘You have walked into the wolf’s lair. You are alone, naked, defenceless.’ Reaching out both arms, he said, ‘I could gut you with my bare hands. Drench myself in your blood and rip off that pretty head. Then I would throw what remained into the street for the dogs to feast on.’
Blanching, Juliana began to edge towards the door. Karas crossed the room and kicked it shut, blocking her path to the only way out.
‘Do not hurt me,’ she said. ‘I will do . . . I will pay anything.’ She backed away from him and fell across the bed.
‘You were too confident. Too confident by far.’
‘Please,’ she begged. Her hands were trembling. He could see that she knew what a fool she had been.
‘But here, at this point, where all my plans are falling into place, I can afford to take no risks. You have had a lucky escape.’ Lowering his arms, he cracked his knuckles and sneered, ‘You Nepotes, you can never be trusted. You have no strength, no power, so you skulk in the shadows, watching. You send out your spies, and you bide your time waiting for the fates to conspire to give you an advantage. And I do not doubt that you all thought yourselves so clever for sending you to bed me here. You laughed, I am sure. But that means someone knows you are here, little girl, and I will not be tarnished by accusations of murder. For though the emperor would surely find some way to pardon me for it, the taint of the crime would follow me and that would hinder all that I have put in place.’
Juliana let out the breath trapped inside her in a juddering sigh. As Karas loomed over her, she cowered back across the bed. ‘But know this, for all the good it will do you. Soon the Verini will rule this empire. Very soon. But you and your kin will not live to see it. I will take great pleasure from breaking the neck of each one of you with my bare hands. Judgement Day is coming for you all, finally, and it is coming soon. Your days are done. Your tale is over. Make your peace with God.’
Her face became ashen. As she mouthed a desperate prayer, Karas crushed her wrist with a hand that had choked the life from a man only an hour earlier. Dragging her squealing off the bed, he hurled her across the floor towards the door. Her humiliation was complete. Scrambling to her feet, she bolted from the chamber.
Karas grunted and said, ‘Whore.’ It was only a whisper, but it chased her out of the house.
CHAPTER SIX
HEREWARD MARVELLED AT the transformation that had come over the Vlanga, there on the south of the city, not far from the Boukoleon palace. Though Constantinople was blanketed with a reverential stillness during the twelve days of that holiest of celebrations, here the streets throbbed with life.
Flickering torchlight turned night into day. Men staggered, carousing, their full-throated singing ringing out across the rooftops. Friendly hands swept up those too drunk to walk. Along the streets, groups of women huddled with bright eyes darting, giggling, feigning shyness but holding out the ribbons that were their tokens. And deep in the shadows of the alleys, pale shapes were entwined. The grunts of lovemaking rolled out.
The air reeked of wine and urine and vomit. The warriors of the Varangian Guard were at play.
With Alric and Varin beside him, Hereward nodded to the warriors he had fought alongside. Even in their drunkenness, they bowed their heads in respect. He was pleased to see them enjoying these moments. Their lives were brutal, and death was always close. But they were well rewarded, no one could deny that.
This quarter belonged to the Varangian Guard, had been earned by them through blood and steel. For one hundred years now, successive emperors had understood how much they owed to the Guard’s ferocity in battle, and their sacrifice. These warriors had been showered with gold. When the crops failed and grain was short, they always had bread. The best wine flowed for them. And they were so lauded for their battle-skills, there was not a man or woman in the city who did not think them heroes.
And yet for all their riches, there was a time of reckoning coming. Would they survive the seasons to come, when so many enemies were readying to bring the empire to its knees? How many of them would die for yet another emperor who barely deserved their loyalty?
‘You are well liked,’ the Blood Eagle grunted, reading the signs.
Hereward could see that selfsame respect in the men’s faces as they glanced at Varin. They knew him, respected him, perhaps feared him too, though he had once been one of them.
‘These men know a great warrior when they see one. You should take heed. This is Hereward of the English. He led the rebellion against the cruel rule of the Norman invader, William the Bastard.’ Alric eyed their captive. Hereward grinned. The monk had been around warriors so long now that not even a man with Varin’s fearsome reputation daunted him. He was tanned and well fed, and he carried himself with confidence. Life at the monastery was good for him, it seemed.
Varin nodded. ‘You lost, then.’
‘Aye. We lost,’ the Mercian agreed.
‘One battle,’ Alric emphasized. ‘But in life he has never been defeated. My friend led his men here from England, crushing hardship after hardship beneath the soles of his shoes. And though all the powers seemed arrayed against him, he brought his men into the Varangian Guard so they could be rewarded in the manner that they deserved. And now Hereward is second only to the commander, Wulfrun.’
Varin looked round. He seemed surprised by this information. ‘Second only to the commander Wulfrun,’ he repeated, adding sardonically, ‘Then it is an honour to have my freedom stolen by such a great fighting man, and my days ended by his works.’
‘Keep walking,’ Hereward growled. ‘You will not be killed.’
‘And a warrior who can perform miracles too,’ the Viking murmured.
Once he had moored the boat on th
e quayside as night fell, Hereward had led Varin to the monastery of St George where Alric had been awaiting his return. The monk was not only the Mercian’s eyes and ears in Constantinople, but his oldest friend and the man he trusted above all others. From the day they had met in the frozen wastes of Northumbria when they were little more than callow youths, they had fought their way through battles large and small at each other’s side. They had both paid high prices, Varin thought, eyeing the stump where Alric’s left hand should have been. But they had survived. They were ready to face what was to come next, together.
Ahead, a ruddy light danced across the whitewashed houses from the Yule fire. The bonfire blazed on the common land at the heart of the Vlanga, and the warriors milled around it with their mead cups. The Romans knew nothing of these traditions; like so many things, the men of the Varangian Guard had brought this with them from their northern homelands.
Varin smiled when he saw the fire. He muttered something, a prayer to Odin, no doubt. When they saw the Blood Eagle, the warriors’ songs drained away and they clustered in groups, bending their heads together to discuss this turn of events.
As the men parted, Hereward peered into faces until he found Wulfrun. In the midst of the celebrations, the commander stood rigid and upright as if readying himself for battle. Ricbert stood beside him, his ratlike face lit by the flames as he swigged back his drink.
Hereward pushed his charge forward. Varin raised his head, dignified, though his wrists were bound with ropes behind his back beneath the tatters of his crimson cloak. As they approached, Wulfrun’s face remained like stone, but his eyes burned.
‘I have brought you a gift,’ Hereward said.
‘We thought you dead,’ Wulfrun said in a wintry voice. ‘Some wished it so.’
And the commander was among that number, the Mercian knew. Wulfrun still blamed Hereward for the death of his father, and however much he tried to come to terms with that, for the sake of peace within the Guard, probably always would.
Wulfrun turned to Ricbert. Waving a dismissive hand at the Blood Eagle, he said, ‘Take this dog away and prepare for his execution.’
‘Wait,’ Hereward interjected. ‘I have promised that he will not lose his life.’
‘What right have you to do that?’
Hereward paused, choosing his words carefully to avoid a confrontation. ‘I would not challenge you, you know that. But hear me out. Varin has lived among the Turks for long seasons now. He has crept along the edges of their camps, and watched their settlements, aye, and tortured their warriors to learn all that he can, I would wager. He has great value to us. You know the Seljuks will attack Constantinople soon enough—’
‘Aye, because of the ocean of blood that this bastard has spilled,’ Wulfrun spat.
‘Be that as it may. We know a war is coming, and we need all that is in his head.’
‘And for this you risked your neck . . . and disobeyed my word?’ His voice hardened.
‘For this, and to save the lives of good men who would have ridden into the heart of our enemies, outnumbered, when one would suffice.’
Wulfrun gripped Hereward’s arm and steered him to one side where they would not be overheard. The Mercian could hear the simmering anger in the commander’s voice. ‘You are fortunate to have friends in high places or you would long since be dead. But go against my orders one more time and I will gut you where you stand.’
‘I am a loyal member of the Guard.’
‘You think yourself above all rules. The great Hereward, the Englishman who fought a king and almost defeated him. You . . . and your spear-brothers. We are all brothers here, but you and your men, you wear the crimson cloak, but you stand apart. You follow your own path, and even when you seem to be doing my work, it is to your own ends. I rue the day we let you all take the Guard’s oath.’
Hereward held out his hands, trying to placate him. He could not afford to make any more of an enemy of Wulfrun than he already was. ‘This time, aye, you are right. I followed my own judgement. But, as you see, I have brought Varin back. His days of blood among the Turks are over, and, if God is with us, we will know peace for a while longer. And no life has been lost in the doing.’
Wulfrun was unmoved. ‘Give me your word that you will not disobey my orders again.’
‘I cannot do that.’
For a moment, there was only the roar of the fire and the drone of men at celebration. The commander scanned Hereward’s face. ‘Then you cannot be trusted, and I must treat you as an enemy,’ he said eventually through gritted teeth. ‘Watch your back.’
Wulfrun marched back to where Varin waited, Ricbert’s blade hovering over his chest. ‘You are an honourable man, I know that. If you wish to keep your head upon your shoulders, swear an oath now that you will not return to torment the Turks, and if we have need of your axe . . . as we may in days to come . . . then you will answer our call.’
The Blood Eagle raised his head so that the firelight played across his features. ‘I so swear.’
‘Go, then,’ Wulfrun spat. ‘Claw out some living here in Constantinople, if you can. And I will pray that we have not brought those days of blood within our walls.’
Varin showed no relief that he had been set free from the fate he had imagined. Instead, he turned, levelling his cold gaze at the man who had captured him. The sheen of battle-madness hid whatever lay within those eyes. Hereward could not tell if the Viking looked at him with threat, or thanks, or puzzlement that someone had thought his neck worth saving.
‘You will see me again,’ the Mercian said. ‘Have no doubt of that.’
Without another word, the Blood Eagle turned and walked away. Hereward watched him go, limned by the fire, until he disappeared among the milling warriors.
‘You should pray that you do not see him again,’ Wulfrun said with no pity whatsoever. ‘A man like that holds a grudge for a long time.’
Hereward left the commander of the Varangian Guard to his contempt. With Alric at his side, he made his way back through the Vlanga’s festivities to the great hall he had been given when the emperor had made him Wulfrun’s second. Though it was no larger than his father’s hall in Barholme, the whitewashed stone made it seem grander by far. Columns lined the door, supporting a small portico. His raven sigil had been branded into a wooden plaque that stood beside the entrance.
‘You have earned this,’ Alric said as if he could read his friend’s thoughts.
‘Small reward for losing England,’ Hereward grunted.
Inside, the raucous voices of his men echoed from the feasting hall. Hereward smiled. Now he could imagine he was in his homeland once more. No one would think a Roman lived here. There was no gold, no marble, no light, airy chambers. Heavy tapestries darkened the walls. The floor was covered with straw and rushes. Wood was everywhere, good, solid wood – benches and stools – and he could smell the smoke of the open hearth-fire.
Yet for all the comfort it brought him, Hereward felt a pang of regret. Easing open the door to the feasting hall, he watched his men before they glimpsed him. There was Kraki, his face a mass of battle-scars, still wearing the furs and leather armour that had seemed a part of him since they had first met in cold Eoferwic. Kraki, who had only loathing for him in those days, but was now one of his most trusted allies. And Guthrinc, an English oak of a man, towering and strong, yet more gentle than any Hereward knew, until he faced his enemies on the battlefield. Sighard, the red-headed youth, his cheeks flushed as he dawdled with some girl. She had dark hair and dark skin, and her dress was the blue of the summer sky. As she twirled a lock of his hair around one finger and laughed, Hereward noticed her bright eyes. They suggested she knew more of the world than Sighard, he thought.
And there was Hengist, driven mad by the Normans who slaughtered his kin, dancing around the table to a song only he heard. And Herrig the Rat, Hiroc the Three-fingered, and Derman the Ghost, like the others stripped to their tunics in the heat of the hall. They tore at their me
at, their chins slick with grease, and threw back their mead as if there would be no tomorrow. The women who sought their favours filled their cups and held their eyes with lingering looks. They had all donned their finest silk dresses, splashes of ruby-red and emerald and ochre in the firelight. Their laughter rang up to the rafters.
Hereward set his jaw. How at ease they seemed. ‘This a poor reward for all they have sacrificed.’
‘You have given them all you promised – gold and glory,’ Alric countered.
‘It is a poor trade for a home.’ He seemed about to speak further, but then caught himself.
The monk, though, knew him too well. ‘You fear for their lives with what is to come.’
‘Gold and glory are passing. Have I given them only a place to rest on the road to death?’
‘They are warriors.’ Alric frowned at him. ‘They know death is always close.’
These men had given up all to follow him wherever he led. He felt the burden of what he owed them pressing heavy on his shoulders.
‘No one here could ask for a better leader.’ Alric clapped a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Put these thoughts aside.’
But Hereward knew he could not.
Stepping into the room, he boomed, ‘The spear-brothers I knew feasted the way they fought – as if it were their last day upon this earth. Have you lost the fire in your bellies?’
A cheer rang out from the warriors. They pushed aside their meat and their drink and swept around him. The Mercian set aside his darker thoughts when he saw the fierce welcome in those faces.
Guthrinc wagged a finger, pretending to count. ‘Two arms, two legs, a head. Is this a miracle I see before me?’
‘Did you ever doubt I would return in one piece?’
Kraki snorted, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Do not swell his head more. I would wager there was more running than fighting.’
Guthrinc eyed the Viking, one brow cocked. ‘And you would have stood your ground against an army of Turks.’