Hereward 05 - The Immortals Read online

  Hand over hand, he pulled himself up.

  Heights did not trouble him. When he was a child in Barholme, he had climbed to the top of the tallest oaks, where the winds whisked the branches so savagely that it felt as if any moment he would be torn free. But this was different. In the deep dark, the void sucked at him. He imagined the shaft going down beneath his feet, and down, and if he fell he would fall for ever.

  From below, he heard voices rumble as the crowd searched along the tunnel. He knew they would not see the climbers even if they looked up, but he still felt relief when no voices were raised in alarm.

  Hand over hand. Feet feeling for each hole. Maximos and Alexios were like ghosts behind him, but he did not dare call out for fear of startling them into losing their grip.

  After a little while, his fingers began to ache. Bolts of pain lanced up his arms from the strain of clinging on for dear life. Every now and then he paused for breath, tried to rest, but the agony in his limbs never eased. If he allowed himself to, he would have wondered if he had the strength to reach the summit.

  But his devil would not let him. Whispers rustled through his head. Blood throbbed behind his eyes. That slow-burning rage put fire in his belly and drove him on. Perhaps the devil was not the enemy he had always imagined. While it dragged him down to hell by degrees, it also helped him to survive another day.

  His breath rasped. No light shone above, no sign of any end to this torment. Even though he knew his eyes were open, he felt as if they were screwed tight shut and he was swimming inside his own head. How easy it would be to let go, fall back, float.

  Cursing, he shook his head to rid himself of the spell. This weakness would be the end of him, if he let it.

  Climb, he urged himself. Climb.

  After a while, his whole body began to shake. An icy numbness spread through his fingers until he could barely feel them. Afraid that he was about to lose his grip, he drove all his attention into his hands. And in that instant, his left foot failed to find the next hole. His toe scrabbled against the wall, and as he flailed he felt his hand begin to drag away from the stone.

  His heart throbbed into his mouth. The world whirled. His head flopped back.

  Just at the moment when he was sure he was falling, his foot slotted into place. Somehow he managed to hold tight.

  For a moment, he pressed his forehead against the dank stone, trying to steady himself. If the others had called out to him, he would not have heard for the thunder of his blood.

  How he found the strength to go on, he did not know. One hand over the other. Refusing to allow himself to think any further than the next hole.

  But then he felt his hand alight on a flat surface, one that seemed to have no end. As he pushed his arm forward, he realized that it was a ledge. With a surge of relief, he dragged himself up and over the edge. Joy swelled in his heart. Beyond the ledge, he found a recess where the builders of the shaft could rest. Never would he have thought such a simple thing could bring him so much comfort.

  For a moment, he rested there, gathering himself. When the rasp of Maximos’ breath rose up through the shaft, he knew he could tarry no longer. Yet where there was one hollow, he hoped there might be others.

  ‘Have courage,’ he hissed into the dark. ‘There is a place to rest just above your heads.’

  Exclamations of desperate joy rushed back to him.

  Gingerly he hung his legs over the edge and shuffled along the ledge. Once he passed the edge of the recess, he pressed his back against the stone for fear he would pitch forward in his disorientation. Barely an arm’s length further along his resting place, he found another hollow, and beyond that, another. Falling into it, he closed his eyes and sucked in a deep, juddering breath.

  When he heard Maximos wheezing as he pulled himself up, he called, ‘There is a cave near you. Rest in it, then follow me along the ledge. There is another. Leave that one free for Alexios.’

  Once they were all safe, they talked in low murmurs, afraid their voices would carry down to Malakopea-below. None of them wished to survive this ordeal only to climb out into a forest of spears. Within no time, the chatter ebbed. Exhaustion claimed them.

  Settling against the back of his cave, Hereward stretched out his aching limbs and peered into the swimming dark. How strange it was to be suspended there halfway between heaven and hell, between life and death. In his weariness, his thoughts drifted like the tide, and he found the blackness became another world, one in which memories and thoughts and dreams played out, merged, became one.

  Red lines danced before his eyes, drifting into the shape of the devils he had seen scrawled on the walls of the chamber at the lowest level. He blinked once, twice, but they would not leave him alone. They sensed that he was one of them, he knew.

  As they faded, he saw his son, no longer a babe in arms but running through the dripping fenlands, his face always turned away. He ached to see the lad more than he had ever dreamed.

  A wave crashed over him, one of the great waves that had almost drowned him off Flanders, and he was swept away into the gulf. Turfrida, his dead wife, was smiling as if she was filled with the joy that had consumed her in life. She told him he was a good man and he felt tears burn his eyes.

  Sleep came.

  When his eyes flickered open again, he realized the black had become grey. Crawling out of the hollow, he craned his neck up. A circle of blue sky glowed above. The light of this new day reached its fingers down the walls of the shaft, illuminating the ladder of handholds and another resting place. No more would he be lost in darkness. Now he could see the challenge ahead of him, he knew he could beat it.

  When Maximos and Alexios emerged from sleep, they hailed each other in cheery whispers. The daylight had worked its spell on them too.

  Soon after that they began their climb again. This time Alexios led the way. The handholds were easier to see, and they scaled the wall at twice the speed of the previous night. As the circle of sky grew larger, that prize drew them on, putting fire in their bellies at a time when they should by rights have been flagging.

  And then Hereward was hauling himself over the lip of the shaft into the heat of the day. After the chill dark of the long climb, the glare of the sun blinded him. He rolled on to his back, one arm thrown across his face, relishing the feeling of freedom.

  ‘That is the easy task done.’ Maximos’ voice floated over from nearby, laced with dark humour. ‘Now we face mile upon mile on foot and a good chance we will starve to death, not to mention roaming bands of murderous Turks who would like nothing more than to lop off our heads.’

  ‘Then let us waste no more time,’ Hereward replied. ‘I have had my fill of running, and a bellyful of bowing my head to those who see me as little more than a dog. Now I am ready to fight for what is rightly mine.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE HOT COALS glowed like a furnace. The circle of ruddy light cast by the brazier boiled, but it barely reached into the suffocating darkness that choked the chamber far beneath the Boukoleon palace. In this miserable corner of Constantinople, one that few even knew existed, the air was hotter than hell and the reek of blood was stronger than in any butcher’s yard.

  Wulfrun lay strapped to rough boards leaning against one glistening stone wall. He had been savagely beaten time and again. Blood caked the corner of his mouth and his skin was mottled with bruises. Lances of pain stabbed into every joint. Somehow he forced open his swollen right eye just a slit so he could see the man who stood before him.

  Falkon Cephalas wrinkled his nose at the stink. He was a man used to giving orders, but rarely seeing their consequences. Today he was wearing an emerald-green tunic embroidered with gold thread, the finest piece of cloth ever to be seen in that foul place. In contrast, Wulfrun was bare-chested, and his filthy breeches were soaked in blood.

  ‘We have gone easy on you, Wulfrun of the English, because of your service to the emperor,’ Falkon said, folding his hands behind his back. ‘But you
know that cannot continue, surely? When I give the command, Kobol of the Blades will draw agonies from you. Every secret you have kept locked away will be torn from your throat. Save yourself the suffering. Speak now.’

  ‘I know nothing.’ His words sounded like stones dropped upon ice.

  The Roman paced closer so he could peer into his captive’s face. ‘I ask little. Tell me where the Nepotes are in hiding and your misery will be over.’

  ‘I know nothing.’

  Falkon sighed and stepped back. ‘She is a whore, Juliana Nepa, you know that? Your true love. Sabas Apion enjoyed her flesh on many an occasion. She led him by the cock into treason, and then to his death. But that was how she wielded her power, by spreading her thighs and twisting the wits of any man fool enough to be beguiled by her. You have no need to protect her.’

  Wulfrun closed his eye. There was nothing here that surprised him. He had simply chosen to ignore it.

  ‘My patience wears thin.’ For the first time Wulfrun heard a note of frustration in the other man’s voice. ‘For every traitor I hang, another two appear. There seems no end to this work.’ He strode away into the dark, his leather soles clacking on the flagstones. ‘But I cannot rest. Soon, God willing, the Athanatoi will return with the Caesar, and if they are not already dead, those English bastards will be swinging on a gibbet too.’

  ‘What wrong have they committed?’ Wulfrun’s croak was almost lost beneath the hissing of the brazier.

  ‘Have you heard how the travellers speak of them in the taverns? Tales of heroes, and magic swords, and warriors who almost brought a king to his knees. Stories that spread. And if men would bring down a king, why, how easily would they be persuaded to unseat an emperor? For a little gold, the adulation of women.’ The low voice roamed through the dark. ‘No, better to send a message to all within this great, shining city that even men who would be kingslayers can have their flames snuffed out as easily as beggars. The moment they return, Wulfrun, they will be gone.’

  Wulfrun felt sickened. He had nothing but hatred for Hereward, but still the Mercian had not earned such a fate. Falkon Cephalas would, it seemed, only be pleased when Constantinople was a city of the dead.

  ‘When I was a boy, in Barholme, in the east of England, my father gave me a spear and a task. I would go into our barn and stay there until I had slain every rat that ate our food for the coming cold season. The first night I slaughtered a pile that came up to my knees. I slept well, thinking the work was done. But the next morning there were more rats, more seemingly than there had been to begin with. I set about killing them too. By the end of the second night, with the bodies heaped higher than my head, I was weary and hungry and filled with despair that I had failed.’ He licked his lips, but there seemed no moisture left in his body. ‘But my father carried me back to our hall upon his shoulders, and he fed me and thanked me. He had taught me a lesson that day – for he was a good man, with a big heart, and he wanted his son to thrive in the world.’ Wulfrun felt a wave of fondness wash over him, and sadness that his father was no longer alive. ‘Where there is plenty, there are always rats,’ he continued, his voice cracking. ‘No amount of slaughter will drive them away, for it is the need that draws them in. The hunger for what is there. A wise man does not waste his time in the killing.’

  The Roman laughed, without humour. ‘This is the father Hereward murdered, yes?’

  ‘Who are you, Falkon Cephalas? What made the cruel man I see before me?’

  ‘I am nobody. I have no import. No purpose save to serve. I am not haunted by days long gone. I have not been shaped, twisted, compelled, made wise, made cruel.’ The Roman stepped back into the light. A wry smile ghosted his lips. ‘I have no stories to tell you of when I was a boy. I think nothing of what was. I could scarcely remember it, even if I tried. My life has been uneventful. Only here, only now, matters. I do what needs to be done, and then I sleep. I do the same the next day, and think not of the day that has gone.’ He held out both hands as if this was a great revelation. Wulfrun thought that perhaps it was.

  ‘You will never be the true commander of the Varangian Guard,’ Falkon continued. ‘Your days of glory are behind you. You will be shamed across all Constantinople. And soon your life, too, will be done. Make your peace with God, for an ending is coming.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SMOKE AS BLACK as Hades billowed overhead. Tongues of flame licked up from the piles of rubble that had once been a thriving town. Ragged corpses sprawled across the streets as if they had been torn from their feet by a mighty gale, and in truth they had: the storm of Roussel de Bailleul’s army. From the moment of the first charge, it was clear to any witness that these defenders had not stood a chance.

  In his hauberk and his leathers and his furs, the warlord stood on the plinth of a statue which now lay shattered in the mud behind him. Turning slowly, he looked out across his handiwork, past the death and the destruction, to the crowds of wailing women and children. His face showed no joy in this victory. It was necessary, no more.

  Kraki glowered at the warriors who picked over the bodies and the contents of the houses for any booty they could steal away. Yet for all his contempt, he had to admit to a grudging respect for the savage skill and strength of this army. The Normans lived for battle, and every man fought like two.

  As the shrieking ravens swooped down to feast on the dead, the Viking looked out across the carnage and frowned. He could not divine Roussel’s mind. Why had he attacked this town and wrought such complete destruction? There was little gain in it for him. He had as much gold as he needed in his palace at Amaseia, and no doubt more still in Ancyra. An assault such as this could only bring the wrath of the emperor down upon him.

  The one-eyed Norman, Roussel’s second-in-command, and another warrior with wild grey hair dragged a Roman out of the ruins. Sporting a swollen eye and a gash on his forehead, the dazed captive did not yet seem aware of his good fortune. As far as Kraki could see, he was the sole survivor of the force that had tried to defend the town.

  The two warriors flung their prisoner on to the ground at Roussel’s feet.

  ‘Kneel before me,’ the warlord commanded.

  Scrabbling to his knees, the Roman craned his neck up at his captor.

  ‘I have shown you mercy for one reason and one reason alone – so you can carry my message to Constantinople, and to the emperor himself. Will you do so?’

  The Roman nodded.

  ‘That is good. Watch well. Listen. Pay heed, for on this great day the course of the empire will be changed for ever. And you, lowly warrior, have been chosen to proclaim it to the world.’ Raising his right arm, Roussel beckoned towards the ranks of his army. After a moment, the mob parted and a man pushed himself forward. It was the Caesar, John Doukas. Unlike the filthy, blood-spattered warriors around him, he was dressed in a clean mauve tunic embroidered with fine gold thread. Kraki grunted. He looked as if he had prepared himself in his finery for a morning in church. With his chin high and his gaze fixed upon the horizon, the Caesar walked to the plinth with a measured step.

  When he came to a halt, Roussel boomed, ‘The fate of this great Roman empire has been thrown to the wind by the betrayals and the failings of the emperor, Michael. He has proved himself too weak to wear the crown. No longer can this be tolerated. No more will his subjects suffer, starve, or die at the hands of the empire’s enemies. Today, all good men must cry Enough.’ The warlord peered down at the Roman aristocrat. ‘John Doukas, brother of the emperor Constantine, no man has a greater claim to the throne. Will you accept this call to lead the people back into the light?’

  ‘I will,’ the Caesar said in a loud, clear voice.

  ‘Then I proclaim you emperor. Once the pretender Michael Doukas has been removed, you will take your rightful place upon the throne, and all will be well again.’

  A cheer rang out through the army. The warriors thrust their swords and axes into the air and stamped their feet. But as Kraki scanned the
ranks, he saw only knowing grins and sly looks.

  The Viking nodded, sneering. Now he understood why the Caesar had seemed more like a guest than a captive when he wandered through the halls of the Amaseia palace. John Doukas’ loyalty had been bought, or he had reasoned that Michael’s days were done, and better to be on Roussel’s side than facing him across a field of battle.

  Kraki glanced around the devastated town. All was now clear. This was a message, to the emperor and his advisers, that Roussel was a force to be reckoned with. They could no longer treat him with contempt.

  ‘Tonight there will be a feast the like of which has never been seen before,’ Roussel boomed to his men. ‘And tomorrow … tomorrow we ride on Constantinople.’

  Frowning, Kraki ignored the raucous whoops of the men and watched the warlord walk towards him. Could it be true? Was the Norman leader so brave … or so arrogant … as to take on the might of the greatest city on earth?

  ‘You think me mad?’ Roussel said, his smile wry.

  ‘I think you have weighed your actions well,’ the Viking grunted. ‘You knew the emperor and that snake of a eunuch Nikephoritzes would never let you rest. The kingdom you have carved out for yourself in Galatia would always be a threat to their rule.’

  ‘You have some wisdom, for a scar-faced old dog.’ Roussel grinned, enjoying himself. ‘Once they sent the Caesar to bring me low, I knew they would never relent. Attack after attack would follow.’ He shrugged. ‘If they had left me alone, I would have been happy to enjoy my land and my gold.’

  Kraki snorted. He did not believe that for a moment. Adventuring was in the Norman’s blood. ‘And now you have seized the upper hand.’

  Roussel raised his face to the sun, basking. ‘John Doukas is an ambitious man, filled with resentment at the way he was treated by those who surrounded the emperor. Nikephoritzes, in the main. That eunuch is a threat to himself.’