Hereward 05 - The Immortals (12 page)

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.

‘At least every man we meet would not want us dead.’

The Mercian laughed. ‘That sounds more like a dream than anything that ever left my lips. Since we first came together in Ely, wherever we turned we have found someone wanting us dead.’ He began to pace around the circle, listening to the crunch of his feet in the stillness. ‘I know you all better than your kin,’ he continued. ‘We are brothers, born from blood. I see before me men who have cleaved heads with axes. Who have ripped open bellies and hacked off arms. We deal in death. And to the Romans of Constantinople we are little more than barbarians. They send us out to fight and kill their enemies so they do not have to sully their pale hands.’ He paused, drinking in the stares of the rapt men. ‘But I see here men who would rather end their own days than kill women and children. Who would turn away rather than slay an innocent man. I see men who fight not for greed or power, but with honour in their hearts. There are easy roads to reach our just rewards, but men like us will never walk them. We take only the right road, however hard it is. The road of honour.’

Kraki dropped back down to his haunches, still glowering, but listening.

‘All is not yet lost—’

‘You say,’ the Viking growled.

‘Have you ever known me to throw myself to the winds of fate? To wait for God to deliver to us what we need?’

Sighard’s eyes brightened. ‘A plan? Is that what you have?’

‘I always have a plan.’ Hereward gave a wolfish grin. ‘On the hard road, we must always wait for our day. But now it is here.’ His thoughts flew back to that hot chamber in the Boukoleon palace where he had bargained with Anna Dalassene to keep his head upon his shoulders. He recalled his mind racing as he stared into her cold eyes, wondering if there was more he could gain than his miserable life. So many sins weighting his soul, so many failures. It seemed scant reward for his bargaining. But if he could find some way to aid his brothers in their misery, to pay them back, finally, for all their sacrifices during the war in England, then that would be a prize worth fighting for.

‘Are you ready to risk everything?’ His low voice rumbled among the trees. ‘At stake, all our lives. Our reward: the gold we need to buy our way into the Varangian Guard and all the riches that will follow.’

‘That, or keep walking the hard road until we are driven down to our knees?’ Guthrinc said with one eyebrow raised thoughtfully. ‘And wait for the Roman bastards to kill us while our backs are turned? Aye. I will take that wager. Better a good death than to be butchered like a stag for the feast.’

‘Where is this gold?’ Kraki snorted, unable to hide his suspicion. ‘Hanging from the trees so we can pluck it as we pass?’

Crouching, Hereward lowered his voice to a whisper. Every man leaned forward to catch his words. ‘When Roussel de Bailleul captured John Doukas, he also took ten coffers of gold plate and goblets and jewelled relic boxes, stolen from the Church when the Caesar was driven out of Constantinople. Unlike John Doukas, the Norman leader is a God-fearing man, like all his folk. He would not dare use that gold for his own gain for fear of damnation.’ The Mercian looked around the faces of his men, watching their eyes brighten as they grasped his meaning.

‘Those coffers are there for the taking,’ Sighard exclaimed.

‘While the Immortals do their best to save the Caesar … when they no doubt plan to sacrifice us to earn their victory … we will be making away with all the riches we ever needed.’ Hereward let the words settle on them. He glanced at Kraki. The Viking would do anything to return to England, he knew that. But as a babble of excited whispers rustled out, the Mercian knew that every man there was ready for this fight. Kraki would not betray his brothers. The Viking gave a reluctant nod.

Hereward felt his heart swell. He had planned to keep this secret close to his heart until they were near their prey, in case he decided the risks were too great to take. But his brothers had decided for themselves. If they were to die, it would be as warriors, fighting for the chance of a better life.

Their hopes renewed, the men buzzed with excitement as they began to make their way back to the camp. Hereward urged them to stay silent, for fear they would wake the Romans. But as he led them quietly out of the wood, a figure hailed him. It was Maximos.

‘I have been looking for you everywhere,’ the Roman said with a broad grin. ‘I was sure the Turks had stolen you from the camp and slit your throats.’

‘We are well, as you can see,’ Hereward replied. ‘It is our way to tell stories of our home so we do not forget the ones we have left behind. Here we could speak freely.’

Maximos nodded. ‘Home pulls at the heart … unless you have kin like my own. I would have given anything never to have returned to the schemes of my family. But return I did, and now I must live with it.’

Turning, he led the way down the slope back towards the camp. Hereward watched him, understanding the emotion that lay behind the Roman’s words, but still not able to trust him. How much had Maximos heard, he wondered? Were they now at even greater risk?

SHAFTS OF LIGHT
dappled the forest floor. Under the thick canopy, the air was dry and hot, and fat flies droned lazily. Dim at first, a rumble ruptured the peace. The sound of thunder rolled nearer until a rider hurtled among the twisted trees. His flushed face was contorted with fear and his sky-blue tunic clung to his body, dark with sweat. With fierce exhortations he urged his foaming mount on. The track had long since been lost, as had his axe and shield. He had been too confident, expecting no resistance in these empty lands where only farmers toiled.

Hereward watched the Norman scout slow his pace. The dark-haired man was filled with desperation as he tried to negotiate tangled roots that could bring his horse down. Ducking under hanging branches, he glanced this way and that. His eyes widened. He could see no way out.

Away in the shadowy woods behind him, more hooves pounded. The cries of the hunting Athanatoi rang out, as eager as boys at play.

Sliding back down into the hollow, the Mercian breathed deep of the rich aroma of leaf-mould, then gave a curt nod to Kraki, Sighard and Guthrinc. The Immortals had done their part. Now it was down to the English.

Looking up at the sunlight shimmering through the swaying branches, he listened to the snorts of their prey’s horse as it drew closer to their hiding place. Three days had passed since their night-time conclave, when he had revealed his scheme. Three days drenched in sweat and burned by the hot eastern sun. The Romans had lost some of their bravado as they rode into Galatia and the green plains gave way to brooding mountains in the distance, grey against the blue sky. Bands of Turks roamed everywhere, their mouths red slashes in black bristles. In their strange bowl hats and long coats, they herded sheep or goats as they moved from farm to village, where they held their markets. The Romans could not look them in the face, no doubt uneasy lest word had spread of the slaughter. But these were not fighting men, anyone could see that. And when the shrill voices of these strange folk were softened by gifts of food, Tiberius Gabras’ cold face softened a little. But all the men there knew the greater threat lay ahead.

The beat of hooves drew nearer. Now Hereward could hear the rasp of the rider’s breath, and his curses. Raising one finger, he cautioned his men to wait.

At least Tiberius had shown some wit as a leader. They had heard whispers of Roussel’s fortress at Amaseia, and the warriors the Norman had garrisoned there, but hard facts were few and far between. Why had he left his palace at Ancyra where the rest of his army waited? And so the Romans had bided their time, knowing a leader such as Roussel would send out scouts to ensure his new kingdom was safe from attack. One lone rider was easy to capture.