by James Wilde
Glancing around at his spear-brothers, he saw their faces stiffen as they recognized the hopelessness of this fight now they were so outnumbered.
‘Hold,’ Kraki called, pointing at a Norman warrior nearby. Hereward followed his gaze, and saw the same look of horror on their enemy’s face. The Normans did not recognize the newcomers either – they thought they were allies of the Romans.
Along the shoreline, swords and axes fell as warriors craned their necks to watch the approaching force.
This new army carried no standard at its head. Narrowing his eyes, Hereward saw that only a few wore armour, and then only leather. Most had no helms, and what shields he could see were faded.
Who were they?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘TO THE STANDARD!’ Hereward roared, thrusting his axe into the air. As his Varangians turned towards him, he was already bounding through the coarse grass on the edge of the salt wastes.
The unknown war-band wheeled along the shoreline into the rear of the Immortals’ right flank. They were heading for the Roman standard. Whoever they were, it was clear they supported the Norman force. Their weapons might be old and poor, but they fought as if they cared nothing for their lives. Hereward watched as the Romans finally found their wits and urged their mounts towards a narrow channel that would give them space to regroup.
Yet the Athanatoi were caught between hammer and anvil. Realizing they had found allies, the Normans discovered new fire in their hearts and renewed their attack.
Caught in the confusion, the Roman warriors began to fall one by one, each man crushed into the ground by the hooves of the wildly milling horses. The unknown men were single-minded. They drove on through the churning mass. Hereward’s eyes narrowed. Aye, pulling towards the front where the banner of Alexios Comnenos fluttered in the breeze. He cursed, understanding. One of the great rivals for power in the empire was about to be slaughtered and no one would suspect any plot. Another Roman hero fallen in battle. This was the work of some treacherous bastard in Constantinople.
Ahead, the storm of steel blasted towards the mercilessly pounding waves. The Immortals there were trapped between the mysterious attackers and the Normans. Their horses roiled in confusion as their riders fought to restore order.
Arrows lashed through the air, punching into shields, faces, flanks. At the back, the newcomers hacked like butchers readying meat for the pot.
These new enemies were no seasoned warriors, Hereward could see as he neared. No more than rough men who had clawed their fingers round weapons they were too slow to learn how to use, they wished only to overwhelm their prey by force of numbers. That gave some hope.
A Norman loomed on the edge of the Mercian’s vision. With barely a thought, he heaved his axe in an arc. His shoulder jolted as the weapon smashed into the man’s face. Not a step was missed.
Hereward caught a glimpse of Alexios in the centre of the maelstrom as he hacked his sword this way and that. The spear of rogues and cut-throats drove towards him. There was no way out.
Feet pounded at his back and he sensed his men drawing closer at his command. Kraki appeared to his right, Guthrinc to his left.
‘Save Alexios,’ Hereward snarled. ‘He is the one they want.’
Plucking the bow from his back, Guthrinc nocked an arrow and let fly in a heartbeat. The shaft rammed into the cheek of one of the rough men. He pitched off his mount and disappeared under the hooves. Those near him glanced round in shock.
The deafening roar of battle swallowed him. The dawn light seemed to ebb away as the shadows of the surging horses crashed down. Then there was only the madness of battle spinning all around.
Snarling his hand in the tunic of the nearest rogue, Hereward yanked the startled rider off his mount. As he went down, so did the Dane-axe. One blow was all it took, and then he moved on to the next. Nearby his spear-brothers dispatched their foes with the same ease. The blade of black and crimson began to cut deep into the heart of the new force.
Some of the riders still thought their height gave them an advantage. Their weapons rained down, but so weak were their blows they bounced harmlessly off raised shields. How could they compete with skills learned on the field of battle, Hereward thought? The viciousness, the intensity, the cunning blows that ripped. The flick of an axe that split tendons at the back of the knee, or the ankle. A lost hand, as good as a killing blow. A rake across a poorly armoured belly, spilling guts.
As they took their time to die in the bog of their own blood and filth, they could think on their overconfidence. They had dared to challenge true warriors and they had paid the price.
When he unseated another rider, he glimpsed Alexios once more through the forest of raised arms and weapons and scowling faces. The young Roman was still holding his own, but arrows were whistling around his head and it was only a matter of time.
If it were at all possible, the din grew louder still, with battle-cries soaring above it. The rest of Robert Guiscard’s army was racing along the beach to join their unknown allies. Hereward cursed. They were outnumbered, soon to be surrounded. Hope was ebbing.
The cut-throats seemed to draw strength from this turn in the tide. Wheeling around, several of them somehow managed to act in unison. Swords and axes came down as one. Hereward glimpsed the danger – one blow in many could slip through defences.
‘Shield wall,’ he bellowed.
With one mind formed over long years of battle, the spear-brothers swept together. Shields locked in the blink of an eye. To the front. Overhead. Impenetrable. Blows slammed against wood. Horses’ flanks crashed against them on every side, buffeting them like a ship in a storm. But they held firm.
And yet, crouched in the heat and the reek of sweat behind the shields, Hereward knew they had only bought themselves a little time.
‘We forgot one thing.’ Guthrinc eyed the gaps that opened and closed between the shields.
‘The spears,’ Derman said.
Hereward gritted his teeth. ‘We do not need spears with these curs.’ Driving himself upright above the shields, he rammed his axe up. His rapid movement startled the enemies who towered over him and they reeled back. But not fast enough. His blade ripped a face in two. Blood gushed down.
A moment after the Mercian ducked back, Guthrinc jerked his giant frame up and tore through another man.
‘Keep moving,’ Hereward growled.
The shield wall edged forward step by step. The cowardly dogs were keeping their distance as they turned their attention back to easier targets. Yet soon the spear-brothers slammed against an unyielding barrier and Hereward knew they could go no further.
Alexios and the surviving warriors of the Immortals’ right flank were pressed tightly together. Robert Guiscard’s men and the new force were crushed against them, picking them off one by one.
‘They will be dead before we carve our way through there,’ Kraki snarled.
‘That is the least of our worries.’ Derman pointed back along the shoreline. A sea of enemies stretched away. The Varangian Guard were just as embattled as Alexios’ band.
‘This is going to be a slaughter,’ Hiroc the Three-fingered breathed.
And so the emperor will be left defenceless, Hereward thought as he finally understood the intentions of the one who had sent these cut-throats to kill them.
Hengist laughed and laughed, his insane joy spiralling up to the swooping gulls.
Like night falling, Hereward sensed his men becoming resigned to their fate. They had fought too many near-hopeless battles before not to recognize that this was worse than all of them.
‘Wait,’ Guthrinc said suddenly. Craning his neck, he squinted into the distance. His eyes were sharper than any man’s there.
‘What do you see?’ The Mercian felt his chest swell when he saw his friend’s spreading grin.
‘Ready your arms,’ Guthrinc said. Blood speckled his face and sweat dripped from his chin. ‘We still have a fight on our hands. A tough one, aye, but a
fight.’
The thunder of pounding hooves boomed against the clamour of battle. From where he hacked this way and that at their enemies, Hereward could not see what was approaching. A moment later, he was dazzled by reflected light shining off the Immortals’ armour, as if the sun had come down from the heavens.
Tiberius was roaring, his face a mask of righteous fury, his sword thrust ahead of him to signal the charge. Though they had seemed to be retreating from the assault of the Norman archers, the Athanatoi’s left flank now rammed a path through their enemies.
‘We have one chance,’ Hereward bellowed. ‘Let us use it well.’
There were not enough Immortals surviving to turn the tide of the battle, any man could see that. But Tiberius’ desperate attack had shattered the enemy ranks. Cowards to a man, they surged away from the fate bearing down on them. A corridor opened up to the heart of the fighting. But though Hereward craned his neck, he could not see Alexios anywhere.
A moment later he caught sight of the young warrior on foot, his back against the cliffs that edged that end of the bay. Three towering Normans faced him, waiting for their moment as Alexios swung his sword back and forth to keep them back. His helm was gone and blood streaked his face from a gash across his temple.
Whirling, Hereward seized the shoulders of one of the Varangians nearby. Shouting into the man’s face, Hereward commanded, ‘Take the rest of our men and flee to the horses. This battle is done. Our only chance is to retreat and save the necks of those who survive.’
‘And what of you?’ the other man shouted.
‘I will bring Alexios. Go!’
As the warrior compelled his fellow guardsmen to storm from the fight, Hereward spun back. His spear-brothers were still clustered around him, their weapons levelled, ready to fight off any attack. They would never obey any order to abandon him, he knew that. Together, they bolted towards Alexios.
Like a pack of ravening wolves, the spear-brothers fell on the three Normans. The enemy died in an instant. Hereward caught Alexios as he staggered. Weak from blood loss, he seemed on the brink of collapse.
‘You have my thanks,’ the Roman gasped.
‘We are not safe yet.’
Looking back, the Mercian saw that the corridor through the fighting had closed. The war-band had regrouped and turned their attention back to their quarry. Hungry grins leapt to the lips of the nearest when they saw that only a handful of defenders stood with Alexios.
The Normans too were crowding closer. Hereward and the spear-brothers, with Alexios in their midst, backed to the rocks.
The Mercian looked past the sea of enemies. Tiberius had lost sight of them. Hereward shouted out to him, but his voice was drowned by the cries of their foes, and then Tiberius turned his horse around and rejoined the Immortals, who were retreating to lick their wounds.
‘Let us see how many we can take before we step into Valhalla.’ Kraki gripped his axe with both hands.
‘There is no way out?’ Alexios gasped, his eyes rolling. ‘I have cost you your lives . . .’
‘We fight, as we always have,’ Hereward interrupted. ‘Today or tomorrow, a warrior always dies on the field of battle.’
‘I would rather die tomorrow, if asked,’ Hiroc grumbled.
‘We could fly!’ Mad Hengist threw his arms into the sky.
The cut-throats began to move forward.
Sighard followed Hengist’s gaze. ‘Hengist speaks true!’
A way up the rocks lay at their backs, steep and vertiginous but still accessible.
‘We will be dead before we are all up there,’ Hiroc gasped.
‘Then climb fast,’ Hereward barked.
As one, the spear-brothers sheathed their swords and threw their shields over their backs. Herrig the Rat bounded up the lowest rocks first, and waited to assist the others. Hands helped Hengist to follow, and together the two men hauled Alexios up to join them.
Their enemies roared their fury when they saw what the spear-brothers were doing. Raising their axes, Hereward, Kraki and Guthrinc prepared to fight them off as the others swarmed up what at first had seemed like a sheer wall, clinging on to handholds to reach the ledge above, where clumps of yellowing grass revealed an easier route.
Once the last of them had been hauled up, Kraki and Guthrinc argued about who should go next, until Guthrinc relented.
Three enemies raced their horses forwards, trying to pin the remaining two Varangians against the rocks. Hereward lashed out with his axe. The blade raked across the flank of the first horse and the leg of its rider. The beast reared up, its scream merging with the howls of its master. It crashed into the other two mounts, unseating its rider, who plunged to the ground.
Kraki hacked down, then spat on the body. That was enough to make the others more cautious, and they hung back to wait for their companions, now galloping to join them.
‘I am harder to kill than you,’ the Viking grunted. ‘You go next.’
‘If you try to stay I will kill you myself.’
After a moment, the Mercian heard Kraki turn and scramble to safety.
Furious that they might be losing their prey, the nearest cutthroats leapt from their horses. Hereward watched them rush towards him. If he turned to climb, they would plant their weapons in his back. His moment had passed. He felt no fear, only an abiding calm.
But then an arrow whined through the air and thumped into the chest of the closest attacker. A gift from Guthrinc, Hereward knew. As the man fell, stones large and small rained down on the advancing band. Skulls cracked, blood gouted.
Hereward seized his moment, and began to claw his way up the rock face.
Running feet pounded behind him, and he twisted aside just in time. An axe clanged against the rock where he had hung, showering sparks.
Wrenching round, the Mercian glimpsed the man about to swing his weapon again. With a snarl, he slammed one boot into his opponent’s face. As the man reeled back, Hereward pulled himself up out of reach.
A few arrows rattled against the rocks on either side, but they were half-hearted efforts. He clambered on, the encouragements of his spear-brothers ringing in his ears, until he felt Guthrinc’s huge hands haul him up on to the grassy ledge. The others squatted around on their haunches, their eyes on him, waiting for his command. Alexios sat against the rock, his skin like snow, but his eyes gleamed a little brighter.
‘You are well enough to go on?’
Alexios nodded.
Turning, Hereward looked down on the carnage. Bodies littered the shoreline. Red streams ran down the beach to turn the surf pink. The remnants of the battered, bloody Norman army trudged back to their camp where a lone figure stood looking up at the cliffs. Robert Guiscard, it must be, Hereward thought. Though the figure was distant, the Mercian could see the tall, slender man whisk his sword in the direction of the spear-brothers. A salute or a warning?
As he turned away from the battlefield, axes and swords punched the air and cheers rang out. His men had every right to celebrate. Though their ranks had been torn apart, they had won this day.
Hereward spat a mouthful of blood. Another victory stolen from them by treachery. He watched the last of the Roman army gallop away up the slopes of the bay.
‘We lost half our number.’ He could hear the bitterness in his voice.
Sighard crawled on his belly and peered over the lip to the swarming army of cut-throats below. About a hundred of the mysterious enemies still survived. ‘Who are they?’ he asked.
Hereward watched some of the rogues begin to climb the rocks. At that moment, a group of the war-band broke away and rode hard back across the salt wastes towards the slopes leading down to the bay. ‘They are going to ride us down.’
Weary, Hiroc bowed his head. ‘How can we escape them? We have no horses. We are far from Constantinople. And if the Norman bastards come looking for us too . . .’
Hooking a hand under the other man’s arm, the Mercian dragged him to his feet. ‘We have not foug
ht so hard and lost so many brothers to give up now.’ He looked around at his men. They were drained, bedraggled, and nursing wounds, but one by one they stood up and nodded their assent.
‘What, then?’ Hiroc asked. ‘Those dogs will be here in no time.’
‘We run,’ Hereward told him. ‘Run!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘THIS IS NO place for the pride of the Nepotes.’
On the table, the flame on the candle stub guttered. Dancing shadows twisted the Blood Eagle’s features into the face of a monster.
Leo pushed himself up from the puddle of wine and squinted at the man who towered over him. ‘Leave me be,’ he snarled. His words were those of a petulant child but the wine slurred them.
‘You are fortunate to have good friends.’
Ariadne felt Varin’s eyes settle upon her and she shuddered. She had reached deep inside herself to find the strength to bring the cold-faced warrior here, not knowing if he would kill her the moment he laid eyes on her. But Leo could not be left alone in this den of thieves and murderers, where figures hovered in the shadows beyond the candlelight, eyes glinting like knives, hands never far from hidden weapons. It would only have been a matter of time before they decided to rob him, or worse, she thought, kneading her hands.
And there was one here more dangerous by far than all these cut-throats. Ariadne searched the gloom, but though she saw no one she could sense that wolf circling just out of sight, waiting for his moment to pounce.
The tavern was notorious, one of the worst in all Constantinople, so whispers said. Nestled against the Kontoskalion Gate a stone’s throw from the harbour, it was a place where sailors passed the hours between voyages, drunk, or gambling, or fighting. When she had crept in, Ariadne had heard many strange tongues, from traders from North Afrique and Syria; some Rus too. Thieves hunched on stools in the dark at the back of the low-ceilinged room, plotting which merchant would next lose his purse in the crowded marketplace. And murderers hid there, she had been warned, escaping justice, with their blades still as sharp, their blood still as cold.