Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (17 page)

The one who walked beside him had seen perhaps fifteen summers. A thatch of russet hair topped a face as pale as the moon, and as still as a mill-pond. His eyes were dark and unnaturally large. Justin was Victor’s son, the product of a roll with a Frankish whore, so tongues whispered. Victor kept the lad away from public scrutiny as much as he could, and never took him near the court. But since news had surfaced of the death of his favoured son, Arcadius, Justin was all he had left to see his legacy grow down the years.

‘That boy unsettles me,’ Ricbert muttered. ‘I feel I should cross myself, or spit to ward off the evil eye.’

‘He is a boy, no more,’ the commander replied. He raised one arm and called out, ‘Hold.’

‘The Varangian Guard? Here, in our monastery?’ Nathaniel said, turning. The monk pressed the palms of his hands together as if in prayer. ‘To what do we owe this great honour?’

‘There has been murder, in the church. You have not heard?’

‘I heard someone had fallen and bashed out his brains upon the steps. But murder? No!’ A faint sibilance licked around his words. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips. ‘Who would kill in a house of God?’

‘In Constantinople?’ Ricbert laughed without humour. When the commander eyed him, he flashed an apologetic look, feigned though it was.

‘You have seen no one passing through here with a weapon? The killer would have been soaked in blood, so frenzied was the attack,’ Wulfrun said.

‘No one. There has been only peace in this garden as we discussed God’s plan for us all.’ Nathaniel looked around. ‘And I see no blood here. The murderer must have left by another path.’

‘You, boy. Did you hear cries? Running feet?’

Justin cast a blank look among the trees as if deep in thought. When he spoke, his voice was dreamy. ‘I heard an owl hoot. Perhaps this was the work of a witch.’

Nathaniel laughed and tousled the lad’s hair. Wulfrun thought the churchman let his fingers linger there for a moment too long. ‘When we speak of God, we are lost to his wonders. The ground could shake, and this monastery fall, and we would not know.’

A pale figure appeared among the shadows at the end of the garden; a girl, a year or two older than Justin. Her greasy hair hung limply around a gaunt face, and she wore a plain dress that was threadbare and smudged with ashes. She beckoned.

‘Ariadne,’ the boy exclaimed.

Nathaniel’s face darkened. ‘You should not be here,’ he snapped. ‘If the abbot sees you—’

‘My father wishes to speak to you.’

‘This is your sister?’ Wulfrun asked.

Justin nodded.

As she stepped out into a pool of silvery moonlight, Wulfrun saw that bruises dappled her face and her bottom lip was split. He had heard tell that, even more than Justin, Victor had kept the girl hidden away. She had little value to him. The Stallion valued no woman, perhaps no man either, only the power that could be earned through their devices.

‘I must go,’ Nathaniel said. ‘May God guide your hand and your heart, Wulfrun.’ He hurried away with Justin trailing at his heels. When he reached the girl, he clipped her cheek with the back of his hand and snarled some words under his breath.

Wulfrun watched them disappear into the dark. The Verini spun their web wide, and the strands seemed to reach into all parts of Constantinople.

‘The lad’s hair was wet. He has bathed,’ he mused.

‘To wash the blood off him?’

Wulfrun shrugged. He could not imagine a boy committing so frenzied a murder, but there were stranger things abroad. With plots circling like ravens over a battlefield, he could afford to rule out nothing.

‘You think the Verini have designs upon the crown?’

‘I would put nothing beyond Victor Verinus.’

‘Then we should speak to him.’ Ricbert smiled without humour. ‘Quietly, but backed with the sharpness of a blade.’

Wulfrun bowed his head, reflecting for a moment. He wished he was wiser, like his father. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not yet. Victor is a clever man. If we speak too soon, he will cover his path and we will never find where it leads.’

‘But if we leave it too late …’ the smaller man began. He let the words hang.

‘And Victor is a powerful man. He has chosen his allies well and placed them in positions where they can aid him. If we move too soon, it could be our heads that roll.’

Wulfrun tried to clear his head of all emotion. That was the way of the Varangian Guard. The only heat to be felt was in battle. And yet he could not push Juliana’s face out of his mind, not with the shadow of Victor Verinus looming over her. A pang of disgust rushed through him when he thought of Victor taking Juliana’s mother, Simonis, in front of her own husband. Was his loathing of the Stallion, and his fear of what that venomous man might do to the woman he loved, colouring his thoughts? His axe could fall with justice if he could hold Victor to blame for a plot against the emperor.

Reaching a decision, he commanded, ‘Come with me.’ They strode back across the cloister and made their way to the refectory. At the head of one of the long wooden tables, a mound of a man hunched over a sumptuous feast: a pile of
apaki
, the pork salted and smoked, a partridge, eggs, flat bread, olives, a dish of
taricha
reeking sharply of fish, and a jug of wine. His pale blue eyes shone in a face of such pendulous jowls that his hairless head resembled melted candle wax. A cream tunic as big as a soldier’s tent barely covered his rolls of fat. Stubby fingers plucked at the food, pushing it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, relentlessly.

The monk glanced up when the two men entered. Embarrassment coloured his face, and he wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You see before you a glutton,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘But you will forgive me, I hope. It is the only pleasure I have left in this life.’

‘Eat your fill, Neophytos. You have earned your pleasure.’ Wulfrun sat on the bench beyond the array of dishes, and motioned to Ricbert to join him.

‘How is Juliana?’ The monk’s words sighed with a mournful tone. ‘How long it has been since I heard her sweet voice.’

‘Your cousin is well.’ The captain paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘As well as can be with Victor Verinus’ shadow falling across her.’

Neophytos bowed his head for a moment. ‘I fear for her,’ he said in a quiet, tremulous voice. ‘She escaped the Stallion’s vengeance. I would not wish her to suffer as we all have suffered.’

‘It is true that Victor gelded you himself?’

‘Yes,’ Neophytos said dispassionately. ‘He took my balls with his own knife. And he made me watch as he sawed them off.’

Ricbert winced.

The monk shrugged. ‘A brief moment of pain. These things pass.’

‘You are not bitter?’ the younger man asked, incredulous.

‘God teaches us to accept these things.’

When Neophytos reached out for a slice of
apaki
, Wulfrun pressed his fingers on the back of his hand to halt him. With his other hand, the commander plucked an egg from the bowl and held it up; a reminder of what had been lost. ‘I cannot believe you feel nothing, Neophytos. If not for yourself, then for all the Nepotes who have suffered.’

For a moment the monk stared at the egg, and then his gaze flickered away. Answer enough, Wulfrun thought.

‘Even here, in this great monastery, you have not been able to escape the watchful eye of the Verini,’ he continued. ‘A slave to their whims, is that it?’

The monk coloured. ‘I chose to enter this brotherhood. I …’ He choked back his words.

Wulfrun dropped the egg back in the bowl. ‘There has been murder committed in this monastery. Blood spilled on God’s table. I would know what part the Verini played in this crime. And what crimes are yet to come.’

Neophytos lowered his head as if a great weight had been placed on his neck. ‘How can I help?’ he squeaked.

‘You see all here. I would think you see Nathaniel the most. The brother of the man who cut off your balls would not go unseen, yes?’

The monk trembled as he struggled with himself, and then he heaved his huge bulk up from the bench. ‘Follow me,’ he said, glancing around with unease.

‘Nathaniel is not here,’ Ricbert said. ‘He has been summoned, by Victor. That does not bode well, I would think. The Verini are in conclave.’

Wheezing, Neophytos pushed his way through door after door until they came out into the warm night. He pointed to a filthy alley that ran behind the hall where the meat was prepared. The reek of rot hung in the air.

‘Since Victor learned of his son’s death, his plans have changed,’ the monk whispered. ‘Arcadius was being groomed for great things. I know not what—’

‘To steal the crown?’ Ricbert asked.

Neophytos held out his hands. ‘All I can say is that Arcadius lay at the heart of Victor’s plans, that was always clear. Arcadius wanted none of it. That was why he fled with Maximos. You know as well as I that here in Constantinople Victor would not brook any challenge. Escape was the only choice that poor fool had. And so he is dead.’ He glanced back towards the alley. ‘Now Justin spends all his days here being tutored by Nathaniel.’

Wulfrun frowned. ‘You believe Victor has decided to groom Justin for the greatest power in all Christendom?’

‘I know not. But I suspect. What other choice does he have to achieve his ambitions?’

‘That moon-faced boy?’ Ricbert said with incredulity. ‘Let a pig in a cap rule the empire, that would make more sense.’

The monk beckoned with two of his fat fingers. Wulfrun and Ricbert strode to the edge of the alley. The smaller man choked, clutching his hand to his mouth. In the shadows lay a fly-blown dog. The stomach had been torn open, the entrails scattered all around. The throat gaped ragged too. And as Wulfrun cast his eye over the carcass, he saw that the fur had been burned here and there. He glanced back at Neophytos.

‘Justin is not what he seems,’ the monk murmured. ‘He is not one of God’s children, that one.’

The commander looked back at the dead dog, trying to make sense of the eunuch’s words. He saw savagery, torment, cruelty. And he thought back to the tattered corpse upon the altar steps and began to understand.

‘This,’ Neophytos said in his high-pitched voice, ‘is the least of what that foul creature is capable of. Soon, Wulfrun, you may be swearing your axe, swearing to give up your very life, to one of the Devil’s own. One who will lead us all to the gates of hell.’

A THIN BAND
of red edged the western sky. The wind had fallen across the desert and a stillness had settled under the sweep of glittering stars. In the last of the ruddy light, two men stood in silent contemplation. Daggers of shadow plunged into the body in front of them. The skull stared eyelessly into the heavens. Ropes hung loosely around the wrists and ankles, and the folds of the filthy tunic showed that little was left of what had once been a man. Fingers of wind-blown sand reached over the torso. Soon the desert would have consumed all that remained.

Hereward wrinkled his nose but he could now smell no rot on the dry, cooling air. Death worked differently out here under the hot sun. Beside him, his head bowed, Maximos Nepos’ dark hair fell across his face, but the Mercian could sense the grief etched into every part of him. ‘Your friend?’

The Roman nodded slowly. ‘As you said … the ring … the tunic …’ The words were little more than a croak.

Hereward understood the man’s feelings. The blade Maximos was feeling deep in his heart was only the start of long weeks of suffering. And though the initial pain would diminish it would continue to cut his thoughts until one day it did not. It could not be hurried. This was the burden of the fighting man. For every mead-cup raised in celebration of victory, there would be days like this. Two sides locked together in the dance until some axe or spear or sword brought it to a juddering halt. Warriors were filled with the joys of a life lived deeply. And they were the saddest men in the world.

When the other man had had time to sift through his memories, Hereward murmured, ‘Who did this thing?’ When Maximos did not answer immediately, he continued, ‘Did Meghigda end your friend’s days?’

The Roman shrugged. ‘I cannot say.’

‘She has it within her.’

‘Aye, she does. A fire burns in her heart. Sometimes it threatens to consume her. If she thought Arcadius a threat to her or her people—’

‘Was he a threat?’ Hereward hid his irritation at his companion’s secrecy. Since Maximos had been freed, every question had been met with a grin and a glib tongue. This time, however, whether from grief or some other cause, the other man’s guard was down.

‘Arcadius was a threat to no one. He had a pure heart, unlike many of his kin.’ Maximos gritted his teeth. ‘His father had plans for him in Constantinople. Riches … power … all of it waited for Arcadius, but he wanted none of it. And so, with a few good men, we fled the plots and the whispering and the lies and the guarded tongues, and went in search of our own destiny. We drank, we wenched, we fought any who stood in our way, and then we came here, to this cursed land …’ He choked back the words.

‘And here Arcadius was killed—’

‘Murdered!’ Maximos’ eyes flashed.

‘The men you brought with you …?’

‘Fled, back to Constantinople when Arcadius and I were taken, so I am told. For all I know, they are dead too, but …’ His chest swelled as he sucked in a deep breath and looked up to the sweep of stars. ‘There is a price upon Meghigda’s head, you told me, and it seems it is known far and wide. That tells me our men returned to Constantinople and Arcadius’ father demanded retribution for his son’s death.’

Hereward prowled around the body. A single stroke from a blade had laid this man low. It would not have been beyond the queen. Or Salih ibn Ziyad. He chose his words carefully, knowing that anything he said would sting. ‘Would Meghigda have killed your friend to punish you?’

The other man fell silent for a long moment. ‘God knows, I have wronged her. But I never wished her harm … would never wish it. Yet if she did this …’ His voice drained away.