Hereward 05 - The Immortals (6 page)

Wulfrun nodded. ‘You see the plans and the plots, the weft and the weave …’

‘… both within the walls and abroad, and I advise those greater than me on what may or may not unfold.’

‘May you find good fortune in your work, Falkon, for in Constantinople there is much advice but few ears to listen.’

Falkon nodded, his smile revealing nothing. ‘I have made a vow to the emperor that I will let nothing escape my gaze.’

‘That is a great vow indeed.’

‘It is. But it is necessary. And the one who murdered Sabas Apion …’

‘Hereward of the English.’

‘He will be executed this day?’

Wulfrun hesitated, the doubts he had experienced earlier that night surfacing once again. ‘There is no love lost between Hereward and me.’ He smiled inwardly at how bland those words sounded. Hereward had caused the death of his father. He could never forget that crime. ‘He is a blood-crazed warrior, but all who know him say he is a changed man. His friend, the monk, says he keeps his devils locked deep within him these days. Hereward is the son of a thegn. To murder a man in the street like a rogue, that is the Hereward of old. But now …’ As he gave words to his thoughts, he felt his doubts harden.

Falkon held out his hands. ‘Still, he must die.’

‘Even if he is innocent?’

‘How you English stick together!’ The Roman gave a silent laugh. ‘He does not deny he killed Sabas Apion.’

‘There were reasons—’

‘Hereward killed him, of that there is no doubt. And he must be punished. His death will send a message to all in Constantinople that we will brook no challenges to the rule of law. No threats to the nobility. No plots against the emperor. For that message to be heard, Hereward must die.’

Wulfrun felt his racing thoughts begin to settle. There had been a quiet change in the city, but it was not a small one, and he wondered how much it would affect them all in days to come.

‘Constantinople has suffered too long at the hands of those who seek to grip their fingers round the throat of power,’ Falkon continued. ‘No more. We shall not die from a knife at the back when there are so many blades levelled at our chest. I will watch, and I will listen. I will look deep into every face.’ His smile faded for an instant and then sprang back with even greater force. ‘No man is above suspicion.’

Though Falkon’s expression said one thing, the commander thought he glimpsed a momentary hardness in those blue eyes. It seemed that Falkon meant his message for Wulfrun alone.

Once he had left the chamber, Wulfrun felt his unease begin to grow. Striding out of the gate, he made his way through the dark streets to the Boukoleon palace. Coming to a low stone building at the rear, he paused at the threshold and removed his helm. His heart, usually as steady in beat as a war-drum, began to flutter. His mouth felt dry, too, and he swallowed. These visits always turned him into a child again.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the door and stepped into the dark, smoky interior. His nostrils wrinkled at the vinegar reek of sickness. On a stool beside a low bed, the stub of a single candle guttered. As his eyes adjusted to the half-light, he forced himself to look at the figure lying under the woollen blanket. So wasted was it, there seemed to be nothing but folds. Bones, topped by a long white beard and hair.

Wulfrun grimaced and made a low noise in his throat. The figure on the bed stirred. That was good. Every time he visited, he feared the worst.

‘I am sorry to trouble you at this late hour,’ he murmured.

A hand rose from the bed, the fingers slowly beckoning.

Wulfrun pulled up a stool and sat beside the man who had guided him ever since he had arrived in Constantinople. Godred had once been the fiercest warrior the Varangian Guard had ever known. His axe had left its mark on battle after battle, and when he was made commander he was respected by all who followed him.

‘I seek your guidance,’ Wulfrun ventured.

A throaty chuckle escaped the old man’s lips. ‘You do not need to hear the ramblings of a dying old man.’

Wulfrun winced. Even now he could not bear to think that soon his mentor would be gone. ‘You are still the commander of the Varangian Guard.’

‘In name only. You have been commander for long seasons now, my eyes and ears out in the world, my voice. And in a month, or a week, or a day, you will be the true commander. Your wits will guide the Guard.’

‘I am not worthy of that honour.’ Wulfrun bowed his head.

‘What troubles you?’

‘Unrest grows by the day. The people are angry … hungry … weary … afrit.’

‘You think they will rise up against the emperor?’

‘If they do, the Varangian Guard will defend him to the last. No, my worries lie with Nikephoritzes.’

‘That bitter old eunuch?’ Godred broke into a coughing fit that seemed as if it would never end.

‘Sometimes he thinks himself emperor, I am sure. And though he is wise, he is not as wise as he thinks. He will make the empire’s troubles worse, if he lays a heavy hand upon the people.’

‘You think he will do such a thing?’

Wulfrun thought of Falkon Cephalas and nodded.

Closing his eyes, Godred pondered. After long moments, Wulfrun feared he had fallen asleep, or worse, but then the old man let out a juddering sigh and said, ‘This city wearies me. I think I will be ready for a long sleep in my tomb. There is more gold here than in our villages across the whale road in England, eh? Yet they plot and plot, and complain and fight among themselves like starving dogs.’ He hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it into a bowl beside the bed. ‘There are times, now my candle is close to winking out, when I think, Take your axe to all of the bastards. The people know best. Let them decide what to do.’ He groaned. ‘But that is not the oath we took. You want my guidance, Wulfrun? Live life by the day. Suck every greasy mouthful of joy out of it. Worry not. What will be, will be. And you have proved yourself. I am proud of you. When doom comes calling, you will be ready.’

Wulfrun wanted to question the old man more, but this time he saw Godred’s chest rise and fall with the measured rhythm of sleep. For long moments, he sat there, remembering all the things the old man had taught him, and all the wisdom he had imparted. When Godred finally went, this world, his world, would be a darker place.

Outside, the night was warm and the city was still. But the peace would not last. There were threats beyond the walls, and danger within, and now the cauldron was bubbling hard.

THE SWEET SCENT
of the mullein flowers drifted in the air. And yet Wulfrun could only smell sweat and doubt and fear as he swept through the silent streets. Ahead, lamps glowed in the windows of the house of the Nepotes. Even now he barely recognized it. When he had first been entranced by Juliana Nepa, this place had seemed to be a home of misery. The family had suffered greatly at the hands of their rival Victor Verinus, their gold gone, Juliana’s father, Kalamdios, locked in his body from a knife wound in the head, barely able to flutter an eyelid. And this once-grand hall a shabby relic, cracked and peeling and growing filthier by the day as the elements wore it down. But now that Victor was dead and the Nepotes had their fortune back, the house had been repainted. In the sun, it glowed white, like a beacon. The flagstones in front of the door had been scrubbed and cleared of weeds, the cracked and sagging roof tiles repaired. Inside, every chamber glimmered with gold.

And yet the Nepotes had still not found happiness.

On either side of the door, guards waited in the shadows, rough men with leathery faces that were maps of old fights. They nodded as he approached. He was well known there. A slave admitted him to the hall. Bathed in the golden light of a lamp, he stood for a moment, listening. From somewhere deep in the house drifted a soothing melody plucked on strings. A dim voice droned. And from the courtyard at the back came the clash of steel upon steel. He felt puzzled. He had expected to find the Nepotes in their beds.

Prowling to the far side of the hall, he peered out of the open door into the courtyard. Under the glare of torches, shadows danced on the central square beyond the trees. Two figures were sparring with swords. Maximos Nepos was teaching his younger brother, Leo, the finer skills of the blade. Maximos was wearing a fine emerald tunic. His long black hair gleamed, and his beard had been freshly clipped. Wulfrun did not like him. Too quick to grin, he had a sardonic look and eyes that suggested he was always quietly mocking. Leo, in comparison, was a strange lad, quiet and reflective, with dark eyes that seemed to look right through a man.

As they danced back and forth, Maximos made no attempt to hide the fact that he was toying with the boy. His grin was wide, his teasing insistent as he flicked at the lad’s tunic with the tip of his weapon. Leo frowned, concentrating. Occasional clouds of anger crossed his features. With the back of his free hand, he wiped away the sweat that stung his eyes and attacked with even greater energy.

Maximos laughed. ‘You try too hard!’

Simmering, Leo hacked wildly, but his brother parried with a lazy flick of his wrist. Before Leo could recover, Maximos grabbed the boy round the neck and spun him about, shaking the blade from his grasp. When it clattered on to the flagstones, Leo wrenched himself free and whirled, his eyes blazing. ‘I am not a boy!’

Maximos only laughed louder, throwing his head back.

‘When we thought you dead in Afrique, I was the one chosen to be emperor. Father chose me!’ Leo hammered one hand on his chest.

Wulfrun could not allow himself to hear any more of this. The Nepotes had escaped death for treason by a hair’s breadth after they had attempted to place Maximos upon the throne. Only Hereward had been able to save the emperor Michael’s life, and then only at the last. But he knew the family still yearned for the ultimate power, still plotted, still bided their time, and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought haunted him. How could he be true to the Varangian Guard oath, to protect the emperor above all, if he could not act as he ought in this? But his love for Maximos’ sister Juliana had left him unmanned. The swell in his heart compelled him to turn a blind eye to the family’s misdeeds because he could not bear to think of his love’s being punished. Even though he knew Juliana was as murderous as the rest of her kin. Even though he knew her soul was scarred, aye, and her mind too. And yet he had sworn a second oath to Juliana to protect
her
at all costs. Wulfrun choked back a bitter laugh. As if Juliana needed any protection. In all Constantinople there had been no greater monster than Victor Verinus. A brutal, cruel beast whose blood ran as cold as the waters of the Rus. And yet Juliana and the Nepotes had lured him into their plots with their cunning, and then torn off his manhood and watched and laughed as his life drained away. Every man in the empire should fear the wrath of the Nepotes. And yet here he was. What a fool love had made him. What a whipped cur.

He stepped out into the courtyard, and called a greeting.

Maximos’ eyes briefly flickered with suspicion, then he forced another grin.
Never trust a man who shows his teeth too much
, Wulfrun thought.

‘Run along now. We will continue your lesson in the light of day.’ Maximos ruffled his brother’s hair. Leo threw the hand off and stormed away.

‘Boys,’ Maximos said to his guest, holding out one hand.

‘You should be careful what words are uttered, Maximos Nepos. I am the emperor’s eyes and ears here in Constantinople.’

Maximos grinned. ‘You, Wulfrun? You are kin by any other name. And if you finally agree to marry my sister, you
will
be kin.’

Wulfrun winced. If another threat to the emperor emerged, where did he stand? Two oaths in opposition. No man should have to live with that terrible weight upon his shoulders. Yet it would only get worse until he had to choose.

‘The hour is late,’ Maximos said, sheathing his sword. ‘What has drawn you from your slumber?’

‘I have news, and a question. And I offer a warning, to use as you see fit.’

Maximos nodded, his grin fading. He ushered his guest back into the hall and ordered a slave to fetch wine.

‘Sabas Apion has been murdered,’ Wulfrun said. ‘He was a good friend of the Nepotes, was he not?’

‘Dead, you say?’ Maximos showed no grief, but he could not hide the shadow that crossed his face.

Wulfrun sensed that the Nepotes were awake at that late hour because they had been expecting a visit from the murdered man. It was as he expected. Another plot. Another corpse. And, no doubt, another innocent man blamed. Here was one more thing he knew he should not examine too closely, unless he wished to choose between his duty and Juliana. He shivered. A part of him wondered if it was only love that kept him entranced. Whenever he was near Juliana his cock was afire. Every night he dreamed of her body, and every morning his bed was wet with his seed. Though he prayed in the church each day, he could not free himself of the spell of her flesh, of her scent, of the touch of her fingers upon the nape of his neck. Sometimes he wondered if that fire would finally consume him.

Waving away the goblet of wine that Maximos was proffering, Wulfrun said, ‘The Nepotes know all who would attempt to wield power in Constantinople. Tell me of a man named Falkon Cephalas.’

Maximos frowned. ‘I know of no such man. I will ask my mother, but … if he has one eye upon power, you are right, we would know him.’

Wulfrun felt troubled. How could someone rise so quickly without leaving a wake behind him? ‘He has taken the place of Sabas Apion. And Nikephoritzes has charged him with uncovering all who might plot against the emperor.’

The other man laughed, waving his goblet in the air. ‘And that is your warning? Why would such a thing trouble me?’

Wulfrun had no time for games. He had glimpsed the unguarded look in Maximos’ eye and he knew the man would use the information to keep the Nepotes safe; more important, to keep Juliana alive. ‘Is your sister awake?’

‘Of course.’ Maximos swilled back his wine. ‘She would tug my hair until I howled if I let you leave without seeing her.’