by James Wilde
Wulfrun’s eyes narrowed. ‘What say you?’
Ariadne watched the woman wrestle with her thoughts as one by one the masks of deceit fell away. Finally an open, honest face remained – the first time it had been seen in many a moon, Ariadne wagered – and it was troubled. ‘Soon we will move upon the throne.’
‘Why do you tell me this? You know I have given my oath to protect the emperor.’
‘And you have given your oath to protect me. Which one matters most?’ Juliana’s voice hardened. ‘You know we are no angels, we Nepotes. You know we plot to seize the throne.’
‘As long as you gave no voice to it, I could pretend it was not true.’
‘We have no choice but to act soon. Karas Verinus is preparing to seize the throne – he told me himself. And the moment the crown is placed upon the brow of his mad nephew Justin, the order will be given to slaughter the Nepotes.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Do you want me dead?’
Wulfrun lurched to his feet, his fists bunching in frustration. ‘Plots everywhere! What afflicts you Romans? The enemies lie without, yet you would tear each other to pieces.’
‘I will say it again, Wulfrun. Do you want me dead?’ Juliana pushed up her chin. Ariadne could see that her eyes were glistening with tears. Of fear, perhaps. ‘This is no longer about plots and power, about war and the empire. It is about living to see a new day. Against a man like Karas Verinus, seizing the throne is the last hope we have.’
‘You use words well,’ Wulfrun growled, ‘and caresses and tears too. But I will not be twisted by you. I have had my fill of it, do you hear? Your family is like a sickness. You blacken all who fall within your view. I have seen what you and your mother and father have done to Leo. There was once a hope that he might escape the misery you inflict upon all, aye, and upon yourselves, but that was when he was a boy. Since then you have all shaped him, crushed the innocence from him, prepared him to be your instrument for power: a sword, not a brother or a son. What hope now for him?’
Ariadne stiffened, hearing her own thoughts echoed back at her.
Rising, Juliana reached out her arms to comfort him, but he turned away. ‘Sometimes I think this is my curse for all my sins,’ he said. ‘To offer love, but receive only pain in return, until the life drains from me and my days are ended with a knife in the back in the middle of one of your plots.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’
Wulfrun whirled. ‘I have turned a blind eye for so long, there are days when I am lost in darkness. But I have heard the talk all over the city . . .’ He swallowed. ‘The talk of you and other men. I have tried to see only good in you, Juliana, and it has been the hardest battle I have ever fought. But I have reached the end of that road. I cannot tell if you use me or not, but here, with death drawing nearer, I can no longer live this way. I would not see myself as weak.’
Juliana’s cheeks reddened. ‘These rumours you have heard, all of them are lies . . .’
Wulfrun held up his hand to silence her. ‘No more,’ he said wearily.
‘When Falkon Cephalas had your head upon the block, I helped save your life when I should have run to preserve my own neck.’ Her voice trembled. ‘If I did not care for you, would I have risked all?’
‘For each moment when I thought you could truly love, there have been a hundred others when I have been sent running like a one-eyed farmer’s dog to further the cause of the Nepotes.’
Juliana grasped the guardsman’s arm and spun him towards her. ‘You are a warrior, Wulfrun, and I thought you understood this world is a battlefield. There are no heroes, like the ones they tell of in the old stories. Nor are there devils. There is only living to see the next day, and how we do it—’
‘There is honour.’ Filled with fire, Wulfrun pushed his face closer to hers. ‘There is goodness in a man’s heart.’
Juliana placed a hand on his chest, as if to hold him back from attacking her. Her voice softened. ‘We have all done things that we would not tell to another. You too, I would wager.’
A shadow crossed Wulfrun’s face.
‘I have done more than most, I cannot deny that,’ she continued. ‘From the moment we let go of our mother’s skirts, we Nepotes are taught what we must do to gain power. We sacrifice the chance to live the life of a farmer. But what we might gain . . . oh, Wulfrun, what we might gain. This is who I am. Juliana Nepa. Power is my birthright, and I will do whatever it takes to hold it in my hands.’
For a moment, Wulfrun looked as if he had been slapped across the face, Ariadne thought.
‘And yet . . . at the same time, I love. I love my mother and father, and Leo. And I love you, Wulfrun. I have always loved you. No lies here. No twisting.’ Juliana smiled. ‘No coursing with a one-eyed farmer’s dog. I speak from the heart.’
Ariadne watched the tremors in Wulfrun’s features as he struggled to accept what he was hearing.
‘Then be my wife,’ he said after a while.
Juliana nodded slowly. ‘I will.’
Wulfrun gaped, speechless. Ariadne could see that he had reconciled himself to ending this mockery of a love that he had endured for so long. She leaned down further, risking discovery. But she was gripped by what she was hearing, and wanted to see Juliana’s face more clearly. She wanted to know if this was another of the woman’s manipulations. But no – she seemed to be speaking truly. She loved him. He was her instrument of achieving power. He was the man she held dearest. What a strange world this was, Ariadne thought.
Juliana’s eyes gleamed with a cold fire. ‘I will wed you. But not until Leo sits upon the throne.’
Wulfrun shook his head. ‘If Karas Verinus moves against you, I will kill him with my own hands.’
‘He will destroy you, Wulfrun, as he has destroyed so many others. No, the only hope I have is to see the Nepotes ruling the empire.’
‘But . . . I have sworn an oath to the emperor.’
‘And you have sworn an oath to me,’ she repeated. ‘Now is the time to choose. Stand with the Nepotes or lose me for ever.’
Ariadne watched Wulfrun waver, and her heart went out to him. To be forced to make such a choice, a man of honour like this commander of the Guard. Why, it must be like a sword plunging into his chest.
Juliana pressed her lips on Wulfrun’s mouth in a deep kiss. When she pulled back, she breathed, ‘There will be one other reward for you: vengeance. As long as I have known you, you have carried in your heart the pain of your father’s death. Who caused that death?’
‘Hereward.’
‘Hereward,’ she repeated. ‘And now, finally, it is time to make him pay. My father has sent out word for a good man with an axe, one who can keep us safe until we make our move. And one who will take the heads of our enemies when that day dawns. Aid me now and Hereward will be the first to fall. I give you my vow.’
In that moment, Ariadne felt overwhelmed by a portent of doom, one that swallowed Wulfrun, the Nepotes, perhaps all of them. There could be no good ending to this.
As silent as a ghost, she hauled herself up through the branches until she could leap to the roof. Her feet made not even a whisper when she landed. Creeping across the creaking tiles, she lay on her belly on the side that overlooked the street and watched Wulfrun leave. Then she crawled to the end and dropped on to the lower roof over the kitchen.
When she was on the ground, she sat in the shadows of the alley beside the house. ‘Meghigda,’ she prayed, closing her eyes, ‘come to me. Show me the path I must take.’ But in her heart, she knew. She had to save Leo. If he took the throne, he would be lost to her for ever. And if she ventured near him, the Nepotes would kill her, one of the loathed Verini.
As the shadows lengthened, she felt the fire of al-Kahina start to burn inside her. ‘I am the slayer of devils,’ she murmured. ‘And I will slay all who cross my path.’
Finally, when dusk fell, she crept out of the alley. Barely had she taken a step when hard fingers closed around her arm. She whirled, spitting, but any ep
ithet died in her throat as she looked up into the cold face of a mountain of a man. He wore a helm, as if he were on a field of battle, and twin coals burned in the eyelets. His mail-shirt was rusted and stained with blood, and his cloak was in tatters.
‘A thief?’ he growled.
‘I am no thief, just a poor beggar,’ she lied, aware of his size and his strength. ‘Who are you?’
The warrior leaned down so he could search her face. Ariadne glimpsed a worrying look of madness and blood-lust in his eyes.
‘My name is Varin,’ he said. ‘They call me the Blood Eagle.’ He looked past her, along the street. ‘Is this the house of the Nepotes?’
Ariadne frowned. ‘It is. What business do you have there?’
He levelled his cold, unblinking stare at the torch now flickering above the door and said, ‘I have been told they need a good man with an axe.’
CHAPTER TEN
THE LONG TABLE groaned under the weight of the food. At the far end, a bald head bobbed in a halo of sunlight shimmering through the refectory window. The hall was empty apart from the solitary diner, the stillness broken by a smacking of lips and a sucking and swallowing that sounded like a man marching across a quagmire.
The monk was a mountain. His jowls flowed like melted candle wax, his shuddering rolls of fat barely contained by a cream tunic as large as a soldier’s tent. His chubby hands danced from bowl to bowl in constant motion, thrusting the morsels into his mouth with barely time to chew and swallow each one.
Neophytos Nepos was at feast.
Alric’s mouth watered as he breathed in the aromas swirling from that sumptuous meal. He had not eaten at the Yule celebration the previous night and he marvelled at the display before him. Fresh-baked bread – the fine, white kind, not the hard thistle bread that the poor ate. Apaki, pork, grilled over coals and basted with wine and honey. Roast kid stuffed with garlic, leeks and onions and coated with the tangy fish sauce, garon, that the Romans loved so much. Afratos, beaten egg white topped with chopped chicken cooked in wine and fish sauce. Crab and lobster and squid. Orache and kohlrabi glistening with olive oil. Mizithra cheese curdled with fig juice. Food was one of the few pleasures remaining to Neophytos, and he indulged it to the full. And the kitchen, in turn, indulged him, knowing the power his kin wielded.
So consumed by his meal was he that the eunuch had no idea Alric had entered the refectory. Only when he paused from his eating to swill down a cup of the honey and milk meligalia did he look up.
‘Join me,’ he said in his reedy voice.
‘I have already broken my fast,’ Alric lied.
‘There is hardly any meat on you,’ the eunuch sniffed.
Alric rounded the table, trying not to look as hungry as he felt. ‘Outside our gates, the poor fight over scraps of bread tossed out by our brothers. While there is such need, how can you feast so?’
‘Victor Verinus took my balls with his knife. God would not begrudge me some joy in my flavourless life.’
‘And now his brother Karas has the emperor’s ear,’ Alric replied, moving the conversation on to the matter that interested him most. ‘You are not worried that he will come for you too?’
‘I am a poor servant of the Lord. Such a powerful general would have no interest in me.’ Neophytos pushed a handful of apaki into his mouth and chewed slowly as he watched his visitor.
Alric circled him. They always eyed each other like two dogs marking out their territories, Alric had come to realize. As one of the Nepotes, the eunuch was his family’s eyes and ears within the church, for within this Christian city as much power lay here as in the emperor’s court. Even a crowned head must bow before God, and God’s representatives upon earth. And Neophytos no doubt knew that Alric was Hereward’s eyes and ears too.
‘Karas was drinking wine late into the night with Falkon Cephalas at a tavern in Caenopolis, I am told,’ Alric mused. He studied the fat on the eunuch’s neck for any sign of a tremor to indicate that this news troubled him, but Neophytos only proceeded to tear off a squid’s tentacle. ‘That they make common cause would be troubling for the Nepotes, I would wager?’
‘My kin have other matters to concern them. I hear there may be much joy soon.’
‘Oh?’
‘A wedding. Between Juliana and Wulfrun of the Guard. Or so I hear tell.’ He turned his piercing pale-blue eyes upon Alric. ‘How fares your master Hereward in the Guard these days?’
‘God is my master.’
‘Of course. Forgive me. I would not think to suggest otherwise.’ He chewed on the tentacle, swallowed and belched. ‘Hereward. The man who fought a king. And lost. Still, he kept his head upon his shoulders. I would think he gives thanks to God each day for that small mercy.’
Alric bristled, even though he knew Neophytos was only trying to rile him. Unable to contain himself, he blurted, ‘You misjudge Hereward. He is no mere warrior, good with axe and spear and sword. His wits are sharper than any blade.’
‘Aye. He had wits enough to flee England like a whipped cur.’ The eunuch tore off a knob of bread and used it to scoop up a chunk of mizithra.
‘Wits enough to study his enemies, learn their skills and turn them against them. In the fenlands of England, he saw how fire could be used as a weapon that would drive men mad with fear. In Flanders, he learned of the spear-pits, hidden by branches, where an unwary foe will fall and impale himself upon the spikes. You see only a wild fighting man, but he is always watching.’
Neophytos smirked, just a flash, like the sign of a viper before it struck. ‘Only God sees all. And Hereward is but a man. Here in Constantinople there are enemies no man sees. Until it is too late.’
Alric flinched. But before he could decipher what lay hidden in the eunuch’s words, loud voices rang out in the monastery.
‘What is this?’ Neophytos frowned. A shadow crossed his face. ‘Is it the Turks? They are attacking now?’ His voice drained away to a whisper. ‘Too soon. Too soon.’
Too soon for the Nepotes’ plans, Alric thought. He hid a petty smile at the other man’s discomfort. ‘Let us see.’ Without waiting for the eunuch to haul his bulk away from the table, he hurried in the direction of the clamour.
A crowd of monks swarmed around two men in the hall by the monastery door, wailing and praying with hands thrown to the heavens. One of the newcomers was tall and thin as a sapling, his wiry hair matted with sweat. Dirt streaked the front of his tunic and turned his hands black. Tears carved paths through the grime on his cheeks.
The other man was filthier still. He was old, shrunken and twisted, more bones than meat, with a mass of wild hair that had been plastered against his head. Grey clay caked him from head to foot, his ranging eyes white and wide amid the muck. Clawed fingers clutched at what appeared to be a shroud binding his body.
‘A miracle! A miracle!’ one of the monks exclaimed as he caught at Alric’s arm.
‘Brother, we have been blessed. Here, in Constantinople, God is at work,’ another cried, clutching his head.
Alric spotted Neophytos lumbering along the corridor, wheezing from the exertion. When the eunuch reached the edge of the crowd, Alric demanded, ‘Tell me what has driven you to such heights.’
Palladius, a young monk with one milky eye, held out his hands towards the clay-slaked Roman. ‘This man, brother, this man has been raised from the dead. Our Lord has spoken! Give praise to the Lord!’
‘’Tis true.’ The tall Roman stared at the old man, dazed. ‘I dig the holes for the dead at the boneyard by the gate of the Neorion. Ten years now, dig, dig, dig.’ He swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘This morning . . . at sunrise . . . I saw . . . I saw . . .’
‘Tell him,’ Palladius urged. ‘Tell him as you told me, so that he may know the wonder.’
Swallowing again, the digger scrubbed his hand through his hair. ‘As God is my witness, I saw this man claw his way out of a fresh grave. Fingers first, like a new bloom. Then a hand, and an arm, and then he dragged himself out. Blinking, h
e was, as though he was seeing the sun for the first time. And he said . . . and he said . . .’
‘“God has raised me”!’ Palladius cried, throwing his hands high.
The gravedigger nodded in agreement.
‘Is this true?’ Alric grabbed the filthy old man’s shoulders. ‘You were dead and now you have risen?’
The old man’s gaze, wandering and distant, slowly drew back to Alric’s face and he nodded. ‘I was dead,’ he croaked. ‘And God has given me life.’
‘A miracle!’ Palladius proclaimed.
For a moment, the old man worked his mouth as if trying to recall how to form words, and then he roared, ‘And God has spoken to me!’
Silence crashed down across the circle of monks. For an instant, they gaped, and then they reeled back. ‘Blasphemy,’ someone stuttered.
Alric fixed a stern gaze on the old man. ‘What say you? Choose your words well, for you are among men of God here. No lies.’
‘In the silence of the grave, God spoke to me,’ the clay-stained man said.
As one, the monks crossed themselves.
‘The Lord spoke to me!’ the old man shrieked.
One of the churchmen crashed to his knees, gibbering.
‘And he speaks to me still. He raised me from the dead so I could spread his word among all folk here, in this place.’
Palladius steadied himself, struggling to drive the quaver from his voice. ‘Then tell us.’
Shaking his head slowly, the old man raised his arm and pointed at Alric. ‘I will only speak through him.’
‘Through me?’ Alric furrowed his brow.
‘God has chosen you,’ the old man said, in awe. ‘God has chosen you, and me, and together we will spread his word.’
Alric felt the weight of all the monks’ stares fall upon him. Every man stepped back, so he was isolated with the filthy revenant. He tried to protest, pointing at some of the senior monks, but the old man waved a dismissive hand at them. Swallowing, Alric relented. ‘Speak, then. What is God’s message?’
The old man looked around the ashen faces. ‘Aye, I will speak, for his message must be heard loud in every home. And it is this: doom is coming to Constantinople,’ he croaked. ‘Doom for all of us.’