Hereward 05 - The Immortals

by James Wilde

  ‘Is this the one? Alric of the English?’ The voice floated out of the gloom.

  ‘It is.’

  Footsteps clattered on the flagstones as a group of six men swept into the circle of light round the altar. Alric recognized Wulfrun, his crimson cloak swirling around him; the others were unfamiliar. Four looked to be rogues from the street, with scarred faces and broken noses. The fifth was a slight man, with greying black hair and piercing blue eyes.

  ‘I am Falkon Cephalas,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘Keeping order in this troubled city is my burden. And it pains me to find that those troubles extend even here, under God’s watchful eye.’

  Alric clambered to his feet, puzzled. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the outline of Neophytos cloaked by the shadows. The eunuch was taking care not to give away his presence. ‘I do not understand—’

  ‘Plots,’ Falkon interjected, ‘against the emperor himself.’

  Alric furrowed his brow. ‘I am a servant of God, nothing more. I have no interest in earthly power.’

  ‘And yet you travel with the English warriors who would have killed a king and stolen his crown, no doubt for Hereward alone.’

  ‘William the Bastard stole the crown first,’ the monk protested.

  Falkon held out his hands, showing how little he cared. ‘Who would have killed a king,’ he repeated in a quiet voice.

  Alric pushed up his chin in defiance. ‘There is no man in Constantinople who would accuse me of any plot against the emperor.’

  ‘That may be so. And yet my eyes and ears upon the streets tell me that this monastery houses men who would see the emperor dead.’

  The monk forced his gaze to fix upon the intruders so he did not draw their attention to Neophytos.

  ‘Since the murder of Sabas Apion, I have learned much about Hereward and the English and their rebellion against the crown.’ Flames flickered in those cold blue eyes. ‘None of it good.’

  ‘They wish only peace—’

  Falkon held up his hand to silence the monk. ‘Your words mean nothing.’

  ‘I do not lie.’

  ‘All men lie, monk. Even the servants of God.’ He flicked his raised hand towards the door. The four rogues turned on their heels and swept away. ‘Too many enemies of the emperor now circle the crown, every one of them brazen. They think they are untouchable because of their position, or because, so far, they have been seen to do no wrong. They are mistaken.’

  ‘You would seize them before they commit any crime?’

  Falkon only smiled, a tight, humourless expression.

  A scuffling echoed in the corridor that led to the church, punctuated by loud cries. When the four rogues surged back into the circle of light, they were dragging another man among them. Alric gaped. It was the monk Amyntas, a devout man even by the standards of the monastery. His nose was caked with blood and his left eye swollen shut.

  ‘Leave him,’ Alric protested, stepping forward to free the captive. ‘He has done no wrong.’

  ‘Stay back, English,’ Falkon cautioned, ‘lest you be seen as an ally of this traitorous dog.’ When he wagged a finger, the rogues stepped back so he could stand face to face with Amyntas. ‘Do you deny that you have worked with others in matters of treason?’

  ‘Yes, I deny it,’ the bewildered monk cried. His teeth were stained with blood.

  Undeterred, Falkon continued, ‘And that you spent evenings at a house in the Pisan quarter, where my spies tell me enemies of the emperor plot his downfall.’

  Amyntas hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough. Falkon’s smile broadened. Sensing what was to come, the monk threw himself back along the nave. At Falkon’s nod, the four rogues whisked out their short swords and fell upon him. Alric cried out in horror. The blades hacked down time and again, as if the men were slaughtering a pig. Amyntas’ blood flooded into the seams between the flagstones and flowed towards the altar.

  ‘What have you done?’ Alric cried, clutching at his head with his single hand. ‘Here in God’s house.’

  ‘Let this be a lesson to you, and to your English friends, and to any who would harm our emperor,’ Falkon said, turning his back on the ruined body. ‘No longer will we stand by and watch the seeds of dissent sprout and flourish. Justice will be swift, and harsh.’

  Alric flashed a look of dismay at Wulfrun. The silent guardsman only stared into the dark of the church. Yet a tremor at the corner of his mouth spoke volumes.

  ‘You moved too slowly, Wulfrun,’ Falkon said as if he could read the minds of those present. ‘These days I wonder if I can trust even the Varangian Guard. You have failed to stop these treasonous plots spreading like weeds across Constantinople.’

  ‘The emperor still wears the crown,’ the guardsman replied, his voice wintry.

  ‘Still. Perhaps it is best if I find my own men to serve my wishes, what say you?’

  Wulfrun turned his eyes back to the dark. ‘Whatever pleases you.’

  Falkon’s piercing gaze darted back to Alric. ‘As if I did not have worries enough about you and your English friends, I am told that you also brought with you the adviser to the Imazighen, Salih ibn Ziyad, a man whose hands are drenched with blood.’

  Alric gritted his teeth, saying nothing. He felt sickened by this man who killed at a whim, who had no respect for the rule of law. If Falkon Cephalas were not stopped, there would be hell to pay for all of them.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ the Roman pressed.

  ‘I do not.’

  Falkon shrugged. ‘For now, I will take your word. But know that my men will hunt him down like a dog. He is a threat, and his days will be ended.’

  Turning on his heel, the Roman strolled back along the nave. A trail of bloody footprints followed him after he crossed the pool around Amyntas’ remains. Wulfrun and the rogues followed.

  Once they had gone, a scuffling echoed from the dark on the far side of the church. Neophytos was hurrying out. Though Alric felt disgust at the murder of Amyntas, the speed of the eunuch’s exit stung his curiosity. Creeping out, he followed Neophytos through the deserted corridors until the Roman stepped into the night at the front of the monastery. A small figure waited by the wall.

  Squinting out of the doorway, Alric recognized Leo Nepos, Neophytos’ cousin. The boy listened intently as the eunuch hissed some message at him, an urgent one by the sound of it, and responded in a voice made loud by anger. ‘Maximos has abandoned us when we need him most. I am the one. I.’ He beat his chest for emphasis.

  Resting both hands on the boy’s shoulders to calm him, the monk leaned in to whisper. Though he strained to hear more, Alric knew he was too far away. Easing along the front of the monastery, he flitted to the shadows close to where the two Nepotes spoke, but he was too late. Neophytos was already hurrying back to the monastery as Leo jumped the low wall into the street.

  Alric looked from one to the other, weighing his options. If any in Constantinople should be worried by the threat of Falkon Cephalas, it was the Nepotes. Perhaps he could learn something here that would help his friends upon their return. Reaching his decision, he clambered over the wall and followed the boy.

  At that hour, the streets near the monastery were deserted. An owl hooted from one of the trees in the garden of a large house. The breeze carried the fragrance of the white, night-blooming flowers that the Romans seemed to love so much. After a while, Leo’s insistent pace slowed. His shoulders sagged, his head bowed; his anger appeared to be draining away. In that moment, Alric thought the lad looked as if he had a great weight pressing upon him.

  An urgent whisper rustled out from somewhere near by. An unguarded foot scraped on the ground. Leo stopped and looked round. Only silence followed. With a shrug, the boy continued on his way. Alric felt his heart beat faster. Did the lad not realize someone else was keeping pace with him in the shadows?

  As the monk glanced this way and that, a shape swept out of a side street. Black, it was, darker than the night itself. Alric gaspe
d when he saw a flash of silver: a knife arcing down towards the oblivious boy’s neck.

  His heart leapt into his mouth – he could not even manage a cry of alarm. But before the blade drank blood another figure dashed forth, smaller this time, and paler. A girl. Grabbing Leo, she dragged him out of harm’s way.

  ‘He is just a boy,’ the girl cried, ‘and unlike my own brother, this one has a good heart.’

  Shaking himself out of his stupor, Alric recognized Ariadne Verina, the waif who had known more miseries in her short life than most grown men ever experienced. Then the would-be assailant could only be the one who had befriended her, Salih ibn Ziyad, the man who hated the Nepotes more than any other in that city – enough, it seemed, to slay a boy.

  The girl thrust herself between the black-robed man and Leo, reaching up her arms to bare her own chest to the blade. ‘Do not harm him,’ she pleaded. Alric heard a tenderness in those words that went beyond mere concern. And when she glanced back and locked eyes with the lad, he could see the affection that lay between them. ‘He deserves your mercy, Salih. We are of a piece, he and I. Both of us overlooked, ignored by our kin, treated like the mud beneath their feet. Both deserving of so much more. That is our bond.’

  Salih snarled, refusing to sheathe his knife. But Ariadne would not back down either. Whirling, she thrust Leo away. ‘Run,’ she urged. ‘Run like the wind. I will hold him off.’

  The boy darted away into the night.

  When Salih moved in pursuit, Ariadne grabbed his arm. Alric watched a curious change come over her face, a hardening as if of age, and when she spoke her voice was deeper. ‘I am al-Kahina. The spirit of Dihya burns in my breast. I am one with the sand and the sun and the rocks. You have told me this a thousand times. We too have a bond that can never be broken. You must trust me.’

  Alric edged closer, puzzled by what he was seeing. The girl sounded just like Meghigda, the queen of the Imazighen, who was now in heaven. Was this why Ariadne now followed Salih like a novice monk behind the abbot? Because she believed she could grow to be as strong and powerful as Meghigda and needed the wise man’s guidance? Or had her suffering made her as moonstruck as Hengist?

  Finally, Salih slipped his cruel blade back into the leather scabbard hanging from his waistband. Turning his burning eyes upon Alric, he showed his white teeth. ‘This is none of your business, monk.’

  ‘You want vengeance for the murder of your mistress Meghigda,’ Alric said. ‘But while you hunt, you yourself are being hunted.’

  Salih narrowed his eyes. ‘Of what do you speak?’

  ‘There is a cruel power in this city. It has smelled the blood of Hereward and the English, and mine too. And now it has turned its gaze upon you.’ A shadow crossed Salih’s face. It seemed to Alric that the other man knew something of these matters. ‘It will not rest until all our days have been ended, I can see that now.’ The monk held out his hands, pleading. ‘If you value your life, or this girl’s, you must heed me. Join with us again. Our only hope is to stand together.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE MOON TURNED the dry land to silver. Under its glare, dark shapes crawled like rats, belly down in the dust and the yellow grass. Not a sound did they make beneath the whisper of the warm wind. Far behind them, down the slope, on the plain where an approaching enemy could be seen long before they arrived, the ruddy embers of a fire glowed.

  Those slow-moving vermin clawed their way up to the ridge and pulled themselves into the dense, spiky trees. Enveloped in the sweet aroma of oily resin, they rose up, becoming men, taking slow steps as they eased into the deep shadows.

  At the treeline, Hereward glanced back to where the Athanatoi slept, no doubt dreaming of victorious slaughter. His nose twitched with distaste. The Romans had left one of their younger warriors to keep watch by the fire, but his eyes had soon drooped. It had been easy for the English to creep away once the snores began.

  Crunching across fallen twigs, Hereward strode into the heart of the circle where the spear-brothers squatted in silence. Here they could give voice to their doubts without risk of being overheard. Since the destruction of the village, the Mercian had sensed the growing dissatisfaction.

  Slowly he looked from face to face. It still hurt him to see how few remained from the full ship that had left England all those seasons ago. Some peered up at him, yearning for answers that would solve the troubles that had descended upon them. Some stared at the ground, lost to their thoughts. Kraki was the worst. His scarred face was rigid, his gaze seeing only the dark between the moonlit trees.

  ‘I know your hearts feel the winter chill,’ Hereward began, his low voice rolling out through the woods. ‘You struggle and strive and wonder when you will achieve the rewards that have been promised you.’

  ‘These days we have worse thoughts than that,’ Guthrinc said. His tone was wry, but his words struck too hard with the men there.

  Hiroc scratched his greasy scalp with the three fingers remaining on his left hand. ‘We do not ride with warriors. These are spoiled children. Drunks. Swaggering oafs who think they are riding out to hunt deer. They will be the death of us, mark my words.’

  ‘Aye.’ The word floated through the branches. Mad Hengist was dancing among the trees. ‘Enemies fight harder … demand blood … when they are angry at the way their kin are treated. We know that, we all. In England, we knew that.’ Sane words from a crazed tongue.

  ‘In England we were heroes. We fought for honour … for justice.’ Sighard plucked at the leaf-mould between his knees. He was the one who looked to Hereward most for answers. ‘But since we came to Constantinople we have been treated as less than dogs. And now there are many who want us dead, any man can see that.’ He paused, letting his words rustle away. ‘Is it not time to give up on our dreams of gold and glory? To move away, to a new land, new fights? At least then we will keep our heads on our shoulders.’

  ‘Run?’ Hereward said in a quiet voice. This sentiment was reaching his ears too often these days. ‘Is that what the warriors of Ely would have done?’

  Kraki raised his head, his eyes glowing under his heavy brow. ‘A good warrior knows when it is time to retreat,’ he growled. ‘A clever man does not wait until his legs have been hacked out from under him, until his spine has been shattered, his hands cut off, his eyes gouged out, before he says Enough.’

  Hereward looked beneath the Viking’s glowering expression and saw the blackness gnawing away inside him. Kraki was the strongest one there, with a spirit of iron and leather, yet he was the one who had been cut the most by their failure. Finally his long-stifled anger simmered, and then boiled over. The Viking hauled himself to his feet, his fists bunching.

  ‘Speak your mind,’ Hereward said. ‘That is why we are here. To give voice to our grievances so they do not eat away at us from within. Brother can say anything to brother.’

  ‘Aye, speak I shall,’ Kraki said, jabbing a stubby finger at his leader. ‘For these things need to be said, and I am the only one who dares utter them.’

  Hereward looked around at the war-band and saw moonlit eyes flicker away. Could it be true? Had he been blind to the true extent of his men’s feelings? If that were so, he was not fit to be leader.

  ‘You are full of promises,’ Kraki said. ‘The sun will shine. Gold will fill our purses. We will find a heaven upon earth. One more dawn. One more day’s march. One more battle. One more night with a growling belly. How long should we listen to these empty words before we say enough?’

  ‘This is not an army. I am not a king. I do not ask you to follow me—’

  ‘No, it is worse than that.’ Kraki stepped forward, his voice rumbling with passion. ‘We put our trust in you. We saw your sacrifices in Ely. You never led us wrong. There are some who thought you more than a man. The hero with the magic sword, who could kill giants with his bare hands.’ He choked down his emotion. ‘But you are only a man after all. And all men have failings.’

  ‘What say you? That it is
time for a new leader? You?’ Hereward demanded.

  Kraki shook his head slowly. Before he could speak, Guthrinc clambered to his feet and rested a hand on the Viking’s shoulder to silence him. ‘We could never ask for a better leader. No one doubts you, Hereward. But there are times when the fighting must end.’

  The Mercian looked around the spear-brothers again. ‘Is this what you all say?’

  Mutterings rustled out, but none would commit himself.

  ‘You, Herrig?’

  The Rat snickered and rattled his necklace of bones. ‘Find me more Norman fingers and I am happy.’

  Someone groaned.

  ‘All your promises of gold and glory,’ Kraki continued, calmer now, ‘each day they sound more and more like dreams made of mist. Our choices fall away. Our chances fade. And in the morn when I wake, I now see only our days ending, and soon, for all of us.’

  ‘And you have a better plan?’

  ‘Any plan is a better plan!’ Kraki raged. Guthrinc squeezed his shoulder once more.

  Hereward hesitated, reading the other man’s mind. He remembered what hurt lay behind the Viking’s anger, something that Kraki would not admit even to himself. ‘You would return to England?’

  ‘Aye. William the Bastard will have forgotten me … forgotten all of us. My axe will earn me good coin. And if I get the chance, I will take the king’s head for good measure.’

  And you will seek out Acha, the only woman who ever meant more to you than gold and ale, Hereward thought.

  Some of the others murmured their approval.

  ‘It does not have to be England,’ Hiroc said in a quiet voice, ‘if you think our lives are still in danger at home. We could go north, east … We could follow the whale road until it falls off the end of the world. Anywhere would be better than this place, where they see us as lower than farmers.’

  ‘And run and run and run, still chasing the gold, the glory?’ Hereward said, holding out one hand.