Hereward 05 - The Immortals (5 page)

Alric expected a look of triumph, but Neophytos only fluttered his fingers as if wafting away smoke. His gaze flickered around the church. He was scared, the monk could see that now. But of what?

‘You think this is of some concern to me?’

‘I know there is no love lost between your kin and Hereward, but I implore you to call upon the Nepotes to help us. Simonis has the ear of the emperor. She could save my friend’s life.’ Realizing he was babbling, Alric tried to steady his tone. ‘I would not expect you to do this out of kindness. We will find some way to repay you … gold …’

Neophytos snorted. ‘You are mud-crawling rats, all of you. Soldiers and beggars. You barely have enough coin to keep your bellies full.’ He smacked his lips. The talk seemed to have stirred his unquenchable hunger. Waving the intrusion away, he began to lurch towards the door.

‘Wait,’ Alric pleaded. ‘We have no one else to turn to …’

‘You should have thought of that before you made enemies of the Nepotes. In Constantinople, a man needs allies to survive, and thrive. And you have none. I will not mourn for your friend.’

‘Tell me what you need—’

Neophytos whirled. The fear in his eyes burned clearly now. ‘Will your prayers keep me safe? Will the spears of your brothers?’

‘Safe from what?’

‘Have you not heard the whispers? The prophecies of doom that sweep through this monastery like the cold northern winds? There is no hope here. Perhaps no hope for any of us. It may be a mercy that your friend loses his head this day and is spared from what is to come.’

Alric grabbed the eunuch’s sweat-soaked tunic. ‘What prophecies? Tell me.’

‘Death is coming to Constantinople, death like we have never known before. Brother Joseph saw it in a dream. Our enemies will bear down upon the walls and sweep through the gates. No man, woman or child here will be spared.’

Alric knew of the rumours of the Turks massing to the east. Hereward and the others had talked at length about how Michael Doukas seemed blind to the threat that lurked on the edge of his empire.

‘This very eve, the emperor sent out ten men to search for new relics. We must put our faith in old bones now,’ Neophytos continued. ‘Perhaps then God will look upon us fondly and spare us from the doom that is to come.’ He threw off Alric’s hand and lumbered to the door.

When Alric hurried out of the monastery, the low horizon was already glowing red. He felt his stomach knot. His friend had faced death before, many times, but this was different. The Varangian Guard always made good on their threats. Through silent streets he ran as the rising sun brought a glow to the grand stone halls, wishing they had never left England, wishing they had won their rebellion against King William, wishing … He made his way to the Kharisios Gate in the western wall and scrambled up the broad steps.

From the top of the wall, high above the stinking streets, he looked out across the sprawling city, so huge it took his breath away. Never in the days of his youth in Northumbria could he have imagined such a place existed. Nothing in England could compare. Some said hundreds of thousands of people lived there, ten times the number of even the greatest city in the west. His gaze swept across the sea of stone, the palaces, the churches, the statues, and in the distance the hippodrome and the dome of the Hagia Sophia. Few could deny it took the breath away. Yet it was a dream, nothing more. Beyond the grandeur lurked a pit of vipers. The Romans here had smiles on their faces and knives behind their backs. No one could be trusted. They called it the city of gold. To Alric, it was the city of death.

As he glanced along the wide wall, he glimpsed a solitary figure staring west, towards Normandy and England. He was not the only one who could not forget what they had left behind. The wind plucked lightly at the black ringlets framing Deda’s face. The Norman knight was a man of wry humour, and gentle for such a seasoned warrior. A code of honour ruled his life. Perhaps that was why he had found so much in common with Hereward, though they should have been enemies. But now his expression was grim.

‘No news?’ Alric asked, anticipating the answer.

‘No good news.’ Deda brushed strands of hair from his face. ‘I visited the house of the Nepotes as we agreed. They would not let me past the door. We will find no help for Hereward there.’

‘How fare the others?’

‘Kraki and Guthrinc hope to persuade Wulfrun of the Guard to show mercy.’ He shook his head. ‘The noble who was slain is too important. A head has to roll for his death, and better a man’s who has no gold in his purse.’

Footsteps echoed on the steps. Alric turned to see Deda’s wife Rowena emerge on to the top of the wall. She wore a white headdress to cover her brown hair, and her amber gown lit up in the dawn light. She had taken work with a rich merchant, assisting his wife in her duties. The pay was good, and she offered all she could to the pot to help the English buy their way into the Guard. But it was never enough.

As she neared, she shook her head, her face sad. Deda bowed his head in greeting. ‘We all do what we can,’ he said. ‘There is no shame in trying.’

‘I begged my mistress,’ Rowena replied, ‘but she would not risk her husband’s standing by making a plea on behalf of …’ She let her voice tail away.

‘Hereward’s name means nothing here,’ Deda said in a quiet voice. ‘He may be the greatest warrior England has ever seen, a man who almost brought a king’s army to its knees, but here he is nothing more than troublemaker, rogue, and now murderer.’

‘They say three other dead men were found in the street,’ Rowena continued. ‘Hereward would not have taken the man’s life without good reason. He must have been attacked. There can be no other explanation.’

Alric bowed his head. ‘Fate laughs at us. To have fought so hard in England … to have defeated enemy after enemy … only to die here in Constantinople for little reason.’ He caught himself. ‘No. I will not give up hope. We will find a way.’ He glanced at the sun floating on the horizon. There was little time left to redeem his vow.

HEAD DOWN, THE
man in the red cloak swept along the ringing corridor. The flood of bodies parted around him as if he were a rock in a stream. Frightened nobles, robes flapping as they ran, afraid that the walls were about to come down. Bleary-eyed counsels roused from their sleep, or plucked from drunken stupors in the taverns. Others stinking of sweat and sex after the messenger boys had summoned them from the brothels. He saw slaves lumbering with amphorae of wine and arms filled with bread to sustain their masters in the long hours of anxious debate that were no doubt lying ahead. More boys racing with messages to those who had not yet heard the news. And leaders of the Church, faces like stone altars, ready to offer their prayers for victory or promises of salvation if all hell was about to break loose.

Wulfrun of the Varangian Guard had little time for any of them. If war was coming, it would be the men who raised the weapons who counted; his men, and the few axes-for-hire the Romans could scrape together from what remained of the army after that terrible defeat at the hands of the Turks in Manzikert, near two years gone now. Two years, and little had been done to rebuild the once-great Roman forces. No surprise, then, that the empire was falling into shadow.

If the word of the warrior the English had rescued could be believed, the Caesar had been captured. John Doukas, a man who was as untrustworthy as any other snake in this city. He had always wanted the power of the empire at his command, but he had never been brave enough, or clever enough, to grasp it. The emperor’s advisers had tolerated his presence, preferring to keep him close where they could watch him, but now he had brought the entire empire to the edge of the abyss.

Torchlight glimmered off Wulfrun’s vambraces as he thrust aside any man who dared venture into his path. The emperor’s palace would normally have been still at that time of night, but now it throbbed with a din that would not have been out of place in the hippodrome. Perhaps these Romans were waking at last. They paid good coin for Englishmen like him to fight their battles, and he was grateful for that – his coffers had grown full since he had joined the emperor’s elite fighting force. But soon they would have to take up weapons themselves if they wished to defend their city. Did they have the fire within them? Only time would tell.

When he came to the door to the feasting hall, he pushed aside his irritation. Adjusting his long-handled Dane-axe and the circular shield marked with his raven sigil, he swung the door open and stepped inside.

The wisest in the government clustered in groups, deep in quiet debate, low voices strained. In one corner, the emperor, Michael, was looking bewildered. His chief counsel, the eunuch Nikephoritzes, loomed over him like a stern grandfather with a mewling boy. With a forced smile, the eunuch ushered the emperor out and then glanced round and saw Wulfrun. As he strode across, he caught the arm of another man, short, with curly black hair shading to grey at the ears and blue eyes that moved quickly, taking everything in. Wulfrun thought he knew everyone who circled the court and the government, but he had not seen this one before, or thought he had not. The guardsman narrowed his eyes, trying to remember. How unthreatening that smiling face looked, how bland. Forgettable. Another bloodless politician who would talk but do nothing.

Nikephoritzes steered the stranger over. ‘You have met Falkon Cephalas? No?’ he said by way of introduction. ‘He will be taking the place of Sabas Apion.’

Wulfrun cared little for the constant rise and fall of those who sought power at the heart of government. Nothing ever seemed to change. ‘The Caesar has been captured by Roussel de Bailleul? Is this true?’

‘Forgive me,’ Falkon interjected. ‘I do not know this Roussel. He is a Norman?’

The eunuch’s face darkened. ‘He is a power in the east, one that has been growing by the day. One, I admit, to which we failed to give enough of our attention until it was too late.’

‘An axe-for-hire, nothing more,’ Wulfrun growled, ‘except traitor.’

‘By all accounts, he was one of the fiercest warriors in our army,’ Nikephoritzes snapped, narrowing his eyes at the commander. ‘An exile from his own people, and like so many he came to Constantinople seeking gold and glory. Our army has always relied upon strong arms from distant parts. They breed harder warriors in lands where the ice-wind blows.’

Falkon cocked his head, puzzled. ‘We put our faith in them, but they betray us?’

‘Roussel did,’ Wulfrun said. ‘He refused to bring his men into the battle at Manzikert when he knew he would soon be smelling his own blood on the wind. The Turks routed the empire’s army, and set in place many of the miseries you see around you today.’ He flashed a cold look at the eunuch. ‘And still we paid Roussel good coin to raise his axe for the empire.’

Nikephoritzes showed an impassive face, refusing to be humbled. ‘We do not dwell on the wrongs of the past,’ he said in a cold voice.

Wulfrun felt his anger simmering, but he kept it pressed deep inside, as he always did when he wore the helm of the Varangian Guard. But he could not still his tongue. ‘And despite his failings we sent Roussel into the east, to face the Turks, at the head of three thousand men on horseback.’ He let the words hang for a moment. ‘But he did not return.’

The eunuch’s eyes glowed. Wulfrun held the older man’s gaze, forcing him to respond. He had spent too long in silence, nursing his bitterness that these Romans would sup wine, and frolic, and dream of past glories rather than face up to the threats he had warned of at every turn. Perhaps he was tired this night.

‘Roussel took his army and conquered land in Galatia, and there set up his own realm, with him as prince in his castle in Ancyra,’ Nikephoritzes continued, each word like a pebble in his mouth. ‘He follows the course of his Norman brothers to the west, in Sicily and Sardinia and Apulia.’

‘We paid good gold to create our own enemy,’ Wulfrun clarified. ‘A realm with a great army, and riches, and a prince who sees what William the Bastard did in England and thinks he can do the same here. Who sees that slaughter buys a crown, and a mountain of gold, and power. And so we called the Caesar back from his estate where he idled away his days and sent him to challenge this Norman dog. And he was defeated. His army was routed, and he was captured. And now …’ He looked to the eunuch. ‘Do we pay a ransom? Do we wait for Roussel to burn this city to the ground? Do we—’

‘We bring the Caesar back,’ Nikephoritzes snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. The thrum of conversation stilled. ‘No matter how many lives are lost in the doing.’ The eunuch sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. ‘These are dire times, Wulfrun. We must not fight among ourselves. And we must take care that we are not undermined from within while we face enemies without.’

Wulfrun gritted his teeth, keeping a blank face. How many times had he said those words to the ones who held the reins of power? How many times had he been ignored, rebuffed, quietly mocked?

‘That skulking rat of yours … Ricbert? … knows all that transpires within the city walls,’ Nikephoritzes continued. ‘The moment he learns anything of import … anything that has more to it than the autumn mist … you must bring it to Falkon. Do you understand?’

The commander nodded.

‘Good. See that you do.’ The eunuch glided away to the nearest clutch of advisers and fell into deep conversation.

‘I have heard nothing but good of your work, brave Wulfrun,’ Falkon said, still smiling. His voice was oddly mellifluous.

‘I serve the emperor to the best of my skills. And you, Falkon Cephalas, what part will you now play in these affairs?’

‘You are a warrior. You know that great battles can change the course of empires. But sometimes small things can too. A wrong word here leads to anger there, turns to a desire for vengeance, becomes a lust for murder, ends in death. A life is lost, knowledge is lost, influence is lost, plans are changed, strategies fail. An empire falls. I have one small skill, Wulfrun of the Guard, and it is that I see the little things, and how they weave into the tapestry of the great things. Nikephoritzes saw that in me long ago, and though I was happy with my lot he chose to raise me to this great height so I can serve the emperor to the best of my skills too.’ His warm smile softened his words.