The Mosaic of Shadows (36 page)

One of the men swore and turned to his captain. He shouted something angrily in his own tongue, which I could not understand.

‘What did he say?’

‘He says . . .’ The captain’s words choked off inexplicably; he clutched his neck, and turned to look at me, as my eyes opened wide in horror. An arrow had transfixed his throat, and blood streamed out of it down over his hands. He sank to his knees in silence and I stared, uncomprehending, but even as I looked I heard more cries around me, and the buzz and rattle of arrows in flight.

‘They’re on the roof!’ Sigurd shouted. ‘Get into the building! And get your shield over your face,’ he added. He charged across the street and slammed his shoulder against the scarred door of the house. It was a blow to topple an ox, let alone the ramshackle door of a makeshift tenement, but Sigurd recoiled from it as if he had struck stone.

‘They’ve barricaded it,’ he called. ‘It’s a trap. Raise your shield, curse you.’

Still reeling, I found the wit to lift my shield arm across my eyes as I crouched on the ground. It was not a second too soon, for even as I did so I felt the blow of an arrow thudding into the leather, inches from my head. The impact threw me off my balance, and I tumbled onto my side, before thick arms dragged me to my feet and pulled me into the shadow of the warehouse.

‘Their archers are on the roofs,’ said Sigurd grimly. ‘They were expecting us.’

‘But they cannot have had time since we arrived to assemble . . .’

Sigurd cut me short. ‘Time enough. And for who knows what else besides. We must escape before they bring reinforcements.’

Keeping my shield over my head, I peered out. A dozen corpses already lay spilled out in the road, but the rest of the Patzinaks had managed to huddle themselves into four circles, holding their shields above them and warding off the worst of the onslaught of arrows.

‘If they keep that formation, they can retreat to the docks,’ I thought aloud. ‘We can find a ship to evacuate us.’

I would have crossed to the nearest cluster of men and explained my plan, but Sigurd held me back. ‘We won’t find a craft that can hold two hundred of us and just sail away. We’ll be trapped with our backs to the sea – we’ll be driven into the water or massacred. We have to make for the square, for the gate.’

‘That’s half a mile away,’ I protested ‘We can’t go that far scuttling like crabs.’

‘We can if the alternative is death. And once we get away from these warehouses, the archers will be behind us. Unless they have more further along the route.’

Who knew where the barbarians would be? But I could not ponder it, for suddenly – as quickly as it had begun – the chattering of arrows on the walls behind me stopped. Nor was it just where we stood, for I could see the Patzinaks in the street relaxing their locked shields a little, peering out from their makeshift shelters.

‘Have they run out of arrows?’ I wondered.

‘All at once?’ Sigurd glanced up grimly. ‘I doubt it. This will be some new devilment. We should move now.’

Even as he spoke I heard a rumbling in the ground, as tremors before the earth shakes. Was even God against us now? The Patzinaks in their circles looked about nervously, shields half lowered. The rumbling grew louder, and Sigurd must have recognised it a second before the rest of us, for I heard him shouting for the men to form a line just as the barbarian cavalry galloped around the bend in the road. Some of the Patzinaks gaped, petrified with horror, but discipline and instinct triumphed in the majority and they began spreading across the street with their shields before them. We did not have spears, but it takes more than spurs to force a horse into a line of men, and if a single beast pulled up it would throw the others into disarray, opening a gap for us to charge into.

But we were undone. The archers above unleashed a fresh volley of arrows, striking down those Patzinaks whose attention was on the oncoming knights: they were caught between the two onslaughts, unsure where to face, and died helplessly. Sigurd strode among them, trying to marshal some form of order, but confusion frustrated his commands and there were too many spaces in the line to check the cavalry.

They broke over us in a wave of spears and blades, thrusting and chopping and hacking at any who withstood them. One galloped inches past my face, but the wall behind me broke his swing and forced his sword away from me. I lunged blindly with my own weapon, but he was already gone and I stabbed nothing but air. Then the space about us was clear again, and I stumbled forward into the street. The ground was littered with blood and shields and broken men, some of whom lifted themselves to their feet, but many more of whom did not. Sigurd still stood, a mountain above the carnage, pulling his axe from the chest of a Frank he had unhorsed and bellowing orders, but there were few who listened. An arrow struck the road by my foot and I ducked down again, but the archers must have had their fill of easy slaughter for their shots were sporadic now.

I waved my arm to the far end of the street, where the cavalry were regrouping. ‘Their next charge will surely sweep us away,’ I called. ‘We cannot withstand them.’

‘I will fight to the death,’ Sigurd answered, his face crimson with blood and anger. ‘There is no honour in surrender.’

‘There is less honour in leaving my daughters orphaned. Die for the Emperor, if you must, but do not waste your last strength in some skirmish of no account. The barbarians will value us far more as hostages than as corpses.’

The keenest of the Frankish cavalry were already beginning to urge their mounts forward, kicking at their flanks and bellowing the war-cries of their race. Lances tilted down; they would be upon us in seconds.

‘The Varangians never surrender,’ Sigurd shouted wildly. ‘We do not leave the battlefield before our enemy, except in shrouds. Stand and fight!’

But his was a lonely voice in a lonely place. Whether Varangians would indeed have fought to the last I do not know; the Patzinaks would not. All around me, those who could still stand cast down their swords and shields and lifted their arms to show they were finished. For a moment I thought the Franks would ride them down even then, but at the last they divided themselves and rode into a circle around us. Sigurd alone resisted the inevitable defeat, snarling and prowling and hurling challenges at our captors, but at length even his head dropped, and his axe fell to the ground.

The barbarians did not address us, but let their spears speak for them. Those ahead began to ride away, while those behind advanced, jabbing at our heels. They did not even allow us time to drag our wounded to their feet, and I saw at least one man, still alive, casually trampled under the cavalry’s hooves. Shame and fury were evident on all our faces, none more than Sigurd’s, but we were impotent: the Franks could have butchered us in seconds.

They herded us like swine back to the forum. The grain carts were gone, doubtless swept clean of all their load, but a crowd many faces deep had gathered. They were expecting us, I realised, taking in the gleeful expectation around me, just as the archers and cavalry had expected us. It sickened me to think of the ease with which we had been trapped.

Four tables had been dragged together on the far side of the square to form a crude platform, on which a dozen of the Frankish captains now stood. All were in armour, and many had their faces obscured by helmets, but the man standing at their centre was bareheaded – and familiar. He was the fair-haired duke, Godfrey, who had received Count Hugh’s embassy in his tent: I remembered he had treated the count courteously, if warily, while his brother pissed on the floor. Though I was numb from the battle, from the forced march at spear-point and the peril of our predicament, the sight of him gave me reason for hope.

Hope which vanished as the leader of the cavalry cantered around the square, reined up his great bay stallion before the stage, and tugged his helmet from his head. His dark hair sprang out in unruly curls, as though he had just risen from his bed, while beneath it the skin was as cold and pale as ever. Baldwin, I remembered, the unlanded brother of Duke Godfrey.

He slipped from his horse and crossed to his brother, a triumphant smile on his face. He spoke brashly and quickly, waving his arms towards his captives and directing his words as much to the crowd as to his brother. He spoke in Frankish, but there was little misunderstanding the vicious exultation in his voice. He seemed to be pressing some sort of argument, for several times the duke interrupted him sharply, but the mind of the crowd was clearly with Baldwin. When he addressed them directly they cheered and applauded, while when he jabbed his finger at his brother they whistled and jeered.

They must have agreed on something, though, for at length Baldwin leaped down off the platform and advanced towards us.

‘No doubt he comes to tell us how much our ransom will be,’ I whispered to Sigurd. ‘Did you understand any of what was said?’

Sigurd shook his head, the agony of surrender still plain on his face.

Without waiting for a translator, nor making any effort to discover which of us was the leader, the barbarian captain approached the nearest of the Patzinaks. The guard’s arm was bleeding, gashed by a spear, but he lifted his chin and drew back his shoulders as Baldwin stopped and stared haughtily down on him. He let his head drift away, then snapped it back and spat full on the Patzinak’s face. The Patzinak flinched, but otherwise kept still, while Baldwin grinned around at the approving crowd, accepting the murmur of agreement which greeted him. He was still facing them, still grinning, while his hand dropped to his sword-belt. And the grin never left his face as he spun about, pulled his sword from its scabbard and, in a single arc, sliced it across the Patzinak’s throat. There was not even time for surprise to register on the murdered guardsman’s face before he was dead on the ground. Blood began spreading across the stones around his body.

A roar of jubilation erupted from the crowd, and Baldwin gave a mock bow, wiping his blade on the dead man’s sleeve. His brother looked on with silent disdain, but he could not defy the mob whose cheering only grew as Baldwin took two exaggerated steps towards the next Patzinak. His blade hovered before the man’s face, darting left and right; then, as the guard tried to duck from its path he reversed the sword and stabbed it into the man’s leg. The guard howled with pain and doubled over, presenting his neck to Baldwin’s hungry blade. He probably did not even see the blow which killed him.

I closed my sickened eyes, then reopened them and looked to Sigurd. ‘We cannot endure this,’ I hissed. ‘He will murder us all for sport, if the crowd do not tear us apart first. We must escape.’

‘You said we would be worth more as hostages than corpses.’ I had never heard such bitterness as was now in Sigurd’s voice.

‘I was wrong. But if we are to die, we should die on our feet. And if we can avoid it altogether . . .’

There must have been four score of us captive in that forum, and Baldwin’s barbarity had kindled the same determination in every soul. Now one of the Patzinaks acted. Refusing to be a willing sacrifice, he charged towards the edge of the square where the crowd was thinnest. The knight there raised his sword to chop him down, but the Patzinak ducked away under the horse and escaped it. I saw his hands grasp the barbarian’s leg and start to pull, while his shoulder must have collided with the beast’s ribs for it reared up on its hind legs, unseating its rider. He fell to the ground with a cry of terror, and in an instant his sword was in the hands of the Patzinak, who lunged towards the crowd with a great shout of defiance.

Desperation filled my lungs. ‘Now,’ I shouted. I snatched Sigurd’s arm and pointed to our right: as the Frankish cavalry and their rabble surged forward to stop the lone Patzinak, a gap had appeared in their cordon. I sprinted towards it with Sigurd close behind, crushed my fist into the single man who barred my way, and stuck my knee into his groin to be certain. He collapsed from my path. More cries and shouts sounded from behind me as Sigurd cracked and shattered the limbs of those who tried to stop him.

We were free, but I could hear the noise of many footsteps running after me. Whether they were barbarian pursuers or Patzinaks who had followed us out I could not tell and dared not look, but they pushed me on up a thin alley away from the forum, away from the confused commotion of the Frankish mob. I ran past the first two roads which turned off my path, swerved into the third and ducked immediately down another lane, hoping it would not prove a dead end, for the sounds of pursuit were everywhere about me. It was empty, but would not be so for long, and with so many barbarians we could not keep running around this maze for ever. I saw a crooked shed leaning against the wall of a house and made for its door, praying to my God that it would not be locked, while Sigurd pushed past me, scanning for any enemies approaching ahead.

The door resisted my first touch, but a frantic kick broke through the rust on its hinges and it swung open. I turned to call Sigurd back, for here we could wait until the barbarians passed, but the shout died in my throat.

A barbarian had found me. He stood behind me watching curiously, almost lazily, though there was nothing the least slack in his arms and shoulders. The blade he held at my neck did not tremble an inch.

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