Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (11 page)

Hereward stood in the entrance to the largest tent, watching the gleaming river of stars wash across the darkening sky. The sweat and grime of the long trek had been sluiced from his body in the lake. He had assuaged his thirst with fresh, clean water and soon he would fill his grumbling belly. As he breathed in the sweet scent of roasting lamb and unfamiliar spices drifting across the camp, he felt the knots in his shoulders begin to unwind.

Through the camp, the men and women of Meghigda’s tribe wandered with languid steps. They were a strange breed. Quick to smile, the babble of their voices was filled with music. They dressed in swathes of cloth that he thought would only have made them sweat more under the desert sun. Sapphire, amber, rose, their robes glowed against the old bones of the dusty landscape. Only warmth had they shown to the bloodstained English warriors trailing into their camp, even though the strangers had eyes that gleamed with the fierce look of cornered dogs and bristled with weapons plundered from the slain sea wolves. He felt comforted by that show of hospitality amid the harshness of this new world in which they found themselves.

Sighard strode up, his hair still dripping from his dunking in the lake. Many of the spear-brothers still lingered on the fringes of the pool, no doubt trying to wash away the terrors of the midday sun.

‘I am a poor excuse for a warrior,’ Sighard began, his head bowed. ‘My head spins, and I say things I do not mean—’

Hereward silenced him with a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I was wrong to strike you,’ he said. ‘We have all lost so much. We cannot see what lies ahead. This can turn any man’s heart black. But we beat these things by standing together, not fighting among ourselves.’

Sighard nodded, but added, ‘And yet I feel I will never know peace again, or kindness, or warmth.’ Glancing around the verdant lake, his gaze fell on Alric who sat at the foot of a tree, the shadows of the fronded leaves swaying across him. Children danced around him laughing. The monk beamed, playing along with their jokes. ‘I could not see myself ever sitting there.’

‘Good things lie ahead. We must have faith.’

The younger warrior nodded. ‘In Constantinople. Only that keeps me putting one foot in front of another. Once we are there, we can carve out a new life for ourselves. Forget days long gone. The world will be brighter. That is my only hope.’

‘And I will lead you to that new world,’ Hereward said, silently vowing that he would not fail his men again. He would die first.

From deep in the trees came the clash of steel. Hereward squinted, picking out whirling grey shapes in the half-light. Even at that late hour, the desert people’s warriors still honed their skills with mock-battles. Over their heads they swept the long, straight, double-edged sword that they called the
akouba
, similar in style to the deadly blades of the Normans. They knew how to fight, he would give them that. They danced across the sand as if they were floating, striking high and then low with fluid sweeps. On their left arms were long shields covered in white hide and strapped to their forearms were daggers for those moments in battle when a swift thrust with a knife was the difference between life and death.

Sighard shrugged. ‘I have seen better warriors.’

‘Not many. They would make us sweat, that is certain.’

The younger warrior’s attention drifted to men leaping over a fallen tree. Each one had a heavy stone fastened to his right arm. ‘Are they mad? Why would they do such a thing?’

‘You would do well to talk to our hosts,’ Hereward replied. ‘There is much we could learn here.’ He pointed to the stones. ‘They carry those weights to build up the strength in their arms. These warriors, the noblemen, ride into battle carrying an iron lance … a heavy lance … which they call the
allarh
. Their servants ride with javelins and daggers. The slaves fight with bow and arrow. They can hit a bird at five spear-throws, but the nobles think the bow is not a weapon for a man. Only the weak would kill without seeing their foe’s eyes.’ He grinned. ‘We will tell Guthrinc that when next we meet.’

Hearing movement at his back, Hereward turned. Salih ibn Ziyad was emerging from behind a wall of cloth that hung across the centre of the tent. He beckoned.

The Mercian moved slowly into the cool interior. He was still not sure if he could trust Salih. A smile was always playing on the dark-skinned man’s lips, but the look in his eyes tempered its warmth. Hereward sensed a fierce intelligence in his host, and as with all clever men there were dark depths hidden beneath the surface.

‘Come,’ Salih said, wagging a finger. ‘You are an honoured guest. You saved al-Kahina when all here feared her lost for ever.’

‘I would have done the same for any woman who suffered so.’

‘Still, we will always be in your debt.’

Easing aside the wall of cloth, Salih swept one arm to guide Hereward into the hidden quarters. The scent of honey and cardamom wafted out from the shadowy recess. The Mercian was surprised to see how opulent it was. Intricately embroidered tapestries hung on the walls, and sumptuous cushions were scattered across another tapestry that had been laid upon the ground. On a small chest, silver pendants and earrings gleamed in the half-light.

Meghigda sat upon a large cushion. She was now dressed in robes of the brightest blue, a golden headdress covering her sleek black hair. The wounds upon her face had been cleaned and were now barely visible against her dark skin.

‘I am pleased to see you well,’ he said.

She nodded, her face giving nothing away. Holding out a slender hand, she urged him to sit. Hereward could not hide his resentment that she had tricked him. ‘You speak my tongue,’ he said. ‘Why did you hide it?’

‘I speak some,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘Words I have learned …’ She frowned, struggling with the unfamiliar sounds.

‘Words she learned from the men who captured her and tormented her,’ Salih said, finishing Meghigda’s sentence. ‘From those who came here, offering trade, but thinking we were barbarians who could be tricked. Men who offered an open hand while hiding a knife behind their backs. We have all learned that our trust must be earned.’

Hereward nodded, understanding. ‘You are wise. But there is more here than meets the eye. It seems there are many who are prepared to go to great lengths to take you prisoner,’ he added, directing the implicit question to the queen.

Meghigda looked past him. Now he could not tell if she was feigning her lack of understanding. Salih held out both hands. ‘We have many enemies. We will not bow our heads to the great powers who lay claim to the world. Beyond the sea, battles rage. Games are played for the thrones of emperors. Plots are made, blood is spilled. And there are some who feel we have a part in that.’

Hereward narrowed his eyes. Once again a smile danced on the man’s lips, and the words tumbled from him as if he were speaking openly. But the Mercian felt he was in the presence of one of the tricksters who performed wordplay in the halls of kings and earls on a winter’s night.

Salih ibn Ziyad must have seen the suspicion flicker in the warrior’s eyes for he said, ‘Let me tell you of my people, Hereward of the English, and of Meghigda, al-Kahina, that you may more easily understand.’

Pressing his palms together as if in prayer, he leaned forward and said, ‘We are the Imazighen. The Free. Some of my people are farmers in the valleys and the mountains. But the ones you see here …’ Smiling, he held out his hands once more. ‘No city will hold us. No warlord will press us to his service. We go where our hearts take us. Here one day …’ he raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, ‘gone the next, like shadows at dusk.’

Hereward nodded. ‘Earth-walkers. I have been called that too.’

‘We are traders. We know the secret paths across the hot desert that has claimed the lives of so many pale-skinned men. And the wares we take to the souks across this land are much in demand. But we are warriors too. We will fight unto death for our freedom. And there are many who would take that, and everything, from us. We are at war, even as we speak, a war with many players.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘In Kemet, the Fatimids have decided we must be destroyed, and they have set our brothers, the Banu Hilal, against us. And in Constantinople too …’ He caught himself, and smiled. ‘We have many enemies. We can trust no one. And if we are to see out our days we must be prepared to fight with every weapon we can find.’

Hereward still could not see what part the sea wolves played, but he kept his mouth closed, waiting for his moment.

‘But we are blessed by God,’ Salih continued, raising one hand towards Meghigda, ‘for we have been sent al-Kahina.’

A faint smile ghosted the queen’s lips as if she knew this was all a game at the Englishman’s expense. ‘And you are more than you seem?’ he asked.

‘The spirit of Dihya burns in her breast,’ Salih said, standing. From a silver pot, he poured a hot brown liquid into three goblets and handed them round. Small leaves floated on the surface. Hereward sniffed the contents. It was perfumed, and when he touched it to his lips he tasted the sweetness of honey. ‘Drink,’ Salih urged. ‘The nights here grow cold. This will put a fire into your bones.’

Once Meghigda had sipped her own drink, she said in faltering English, ‘Here there is the sun and the sand and the rocks and the Imazighen, all eternal. And one other. Blood.’

‘Blood has drenched the dust of this place since God first made the world.’ Salih retook his seat, cupping his hands around his goblet. ‘The history of the world is blood and war, my friend, and that will never change.’

‘My mother told me of Dihya, as her mother told her, and all the mothers before her,’ Meghigda said. ‘It is said that there came a man whose hands were stained in blood. His name was Hasan ibn-al Nu’man.’ Her eyes flashed as she recollected the story she had been told. Hereward thought how well she spoke the English tongue when her thoughts were elsewhere. Games everywhere, and nothing as it seemed. ‘With his vast army, he marched from Kemet, to crush all before him. All the peoples of the world. Cities burned.’ She clenched her fists in passion, and then seemed to sense that she had let her mask slip, for she added, ‘The words … so hard …’ She looked to Salih. Hereward thought he saw tears in her eyes, but he could not tell if this too was a trick.

‘Hasan ibn-al Nu’man was the devil,’ Salih said, picking up the tale. His voice rustled out through the tent, dark and low. ‘He could not rest until he had made every man and woman his slave. In Carthage, he asked the fallen, “Who is the greatest monarch? Who are the proudest people? Who would dare defy me?” And every man and woman there told him, the Imazighen. And their queen –
malikat al-barbar
– was the bravest, the strongest, the most loved, the most feared. Her name was Dihya. Hasan ibn-al Nu’man could not let this stand. He marched his army to Numidia. But Dihya had her spies, and she was ready for him. In Meskiana, they met.’ Salih smiled and sipped his warm liquor. Over the rim of his goblet, his eyes connected with Meghigda’s and she smiled too.

‘Dihya, filled with God’s fire,’ the queen breathed. ‘How those invaders must have felt when they saw her army bearing down upon them with
malikat al-barbar
at their head.’

‘The desert turned red as far as the eye could see,’ Salih continued, ‘and the army of Hasan ibn-al Nu’man was torn asunder. He fled like a whipped cur, back to Cyrenaica, and Dihya followed, slaying any of his men who fell behind, until the invaders had been driven off the land of the Imazighen.’

‘And God’s fire is in you now,’ Hereward said to Meghigda.

The queen raised her chin. ‘We will not be defeated by the Banu Hilal. That is my vow.’

‘And they are the rival tribe who are in the pay of your enemies?’ Hereward said, probing the twists and turns of the power struggles in this strange corner of the world. Meghigda nodded, and he understood the passions that raged inside her. Whatever deception she played, the two of them were alike, he knew. Was her war against the rival tribe and their foreign lords any different from the one he had waged in the fens against the Norman dogs? Was this Hasan ibn-al Nu’man any different from William the Bastard who had stolen the English crown?

‘Then I am proud I have brought you back to your home to defend your people,’ he said.

‘God will smile on you for your good works,’ Salih replied, pressing his palms together once more.

‘And yet there are still some things that make little sense to me,’ the Mercian mused, draining his goblet. He could feel the eyes of the other two upon him. He did not meet them. ‘In the desert, the body of a man, staked out to die under the cruel sun …’

‘The desert is filled with those who would prey upon a lone traveller,’ Salih said quickly, ‘who would take a life in exchange for little more than a ring, or a knife. This is not your home, Hereward of the English. The rules you know do not apply here, and there is danger everywhere, in a glance, in an unguarded word, in a step off a familiar path. It would be wise to remember that.’

‘You have been to England?’

‘I have been to England.’ Salih’s face gave nothing away. Hereward set his goblet aside. Though the other man’s words were measured, he sensed a deeper warning in them. He eyed Meghigda, who was watching him like a hawk.

‘I see a queen, whether or not that is the title you give her. A leader of men. But who are you, Salih ibn Ziyad? What part do you play in these matters?’

‘I am a humble servant of al-Kahina,’ he said with a faint bow of his head.

‘A priest?’

‘I am a guide. A calm voice in the storm.’

‘You have had some learning.’

The adviser pursed his lips, nodding slowly. ‘Salih ibn Ziyad knows the patterns the stars make and how they guide the ways of men,’ Meghigda said. ‘He knows the secrets of the trees and the water and the shifting of the sands. He can see days yet to come in a still pool, and hear the whispers in the wind.’

‘In the wild woods of England, there are women who do the same,’ Hereward replied. ‘We call them witches.’

‘To know these hidden things is to see the hand of God at work. I am blessed,’ Salih replied. Moistening his lips, he eyed his guest. ‘You English, from your cold, wet land. You are not traders, any man can see that. What pulls you from the comfort of your home?’