Hereward 05 - The Immortals Page 5

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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 Gua
rd 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.’

  Soon after the Roman had disappeared into the house, Wulfrun heard slight footsteps skipping nearer. Even now, even after everything, he felt his heart beat faster in anticipation.

  A moment later Juliana appeared at the door, her blonde hair fairly glowing in the candlelight. Laughing with excitement, she hurried up to him. ‘A surprise!’ she exclaimed. ‘But still so stern. One day I swear you will arrive at the door with a smile upon your face and I will not know you. Take off your helm so I can see the real Wulfrun.’

  He could never deny her. Pulling off his helm, he held it in the crook of his arm. And she was right, as always; he felt the weight of his duties sliding off him.

  And yet he must have shown his worries, for Juliana frowned with concern and stroked his cheek. ‘How is Godred?’ she murmured. ‘He has been like a father to you. I know his sickness is a weight upon your shoulders.’

  ‘He yet lives.’

  Juliana seemed untroubled that his answer said nothing. Smiling brightly, she stepped back and took his hand. ‘Soon you will command the Varangian Guard truly. You will wield the power.’

  ‘The power is a burden,’ he said, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice, ‘and I have shouldered it for Godred for seasons now.’

  ‘But still,’ she replied, her eyes gleaming, ‘you will be the commander. Come. My mother and father would see you.’

  As he followed Juliana into the next chamber, Wulfrun pushed aside his greatest fear: once he was the emperor’s chief defender, what would the Nepotes demand of him?

  Her father, Kalamdios, sat on the wooden chair that had been his prison ever since Victor Verinus had thrust a blade through his skull and into his brain. His face was fixed in a permanent scowl, his fingers twitching at his side, though he could not lift his hands, nor walk, nor make any sound beyond an infant’s mewling. A trail of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes rolled in greeting. Juliana’s mother, Simonis, glided from the antechamber, holding out a goblet of wine for the guest. He thought how beautiful she looked, little older than her daughter, though silver now streaked her auburn hair. Wulfrun recalled how he had spied on Victor Verinus preying upon her body in a show of dominance over the whole Nepotes clan. He could understand why all of them had hated the man so. And yet, as he peered into Simonis’ eyes, she seemed unaffected by all she had endured at her oppressor’s hands. His gaze flickered towards Juliana. So beautiful, so young. She must have caught the eye of Victor the Stallion. He had thought he would have known if that bastard had laid hands upon her. But now, seeing her mother’s untroubled demeanour, he was not so sure. Tortured by doubt and desire, he wrenched his gaze away and all but snatched the goblet from Simonis’ hand.

  Once he had swilled down a deep draught, he calmed enough to tell the Nepotes of the night’s murder, and watched all their faces fall. He had been right – another plot in the making. ‘Poor Sabas Apion,’ Juliana said, righting herself. ‘He was always kind to me.’ She plucked at the sleeve of her dress, remembering something, and then said, ‘I am worried, Wulfrun.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Once Victor Verinus was dead, we all thought our time of misery was over. But in the long weeks since then, it is as if death has been following us.’ She looked up at him with limpid eyes. Her worry was real.

  ‘What say you?’

  Simonis rested one hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘The men we hire to keep us safe … many have been murdered. Yes, they are rogues and cut-throats and they spend their nights in the worst parts of the city. But soon we will not be able to find a single man who will take our coin to protect us.’

  ‘You believe you have an enemy?’

  Biting her lip, Juliana hesitated as if she were giving too much away. ‘Maximos was followed one night by a dark-skinned man with a knife. He escaped with his life by a hair. A man he knows from the time he was a captive in Afri
que.’

  ‘Salih ibn Ziyad?’

  Juliana nodded. Wulfrun frowned. Only once had he met this earth-walker from the hot lands to the south, but he had been left in no doubt that Salih was dangerous. He was a wise man who knew many things, yet he could take a life in an instant with that silver knife of his.

  ‘And I … I too was followed,’ Juliana continued. ‘I ran through the market to escape—’

  ‘You?’ Wulfrun thundered, his hand falling to the haft of his axe.

  ‘I saw the blade. And now this, with Sabas Apion … Wulfrun, I am scared.’ She flung herself at him, burying her face in his shoulder.

  Unused to such contact, he did not know what to do. After a moment he let his arms enfold her. ‘I will keep you safe,’ he murmured. Her breasts pressed hard against his chest and her hips ground into him, but she was young and innocent and she did not know what she was doing, he told himself. It was a prayer he had repeated many times. And pure she would stay until he had earned enough gold to gain the approval of Kalamdios and they could wed in honour. Then it would be he and he alone who would have her. Until that day Juliana would be beyond his reach, even though it would be torture to him.

  Wulfrun pulled back before she felt him hardening. ‘I vowed I would let no harm come to you,’ he said, looking deep into her eyes, ‘and I spoke truly. Whatever enemies you have are my enemies.’

  ‘You are a good man, Wulfrun of England,’ Simonis said with a smile. Her dark eyes glittered with triumph.

  Before he could fathom the meaning of that look, a throat-rending cry echoed from the door. A death cry, such as Wulfrun had heard many times before. Urging Juliana back, he darted to the entrance hall. Swinging up his axe, he wrenched the door open.

  Both guards lay sprawled on the flagstones, dead. Two figures waited on the other side of the street, their presence taunting whoever might discover the bodies. One was Salih ibn Ziyad, black bristles lining a grim slash of a mouth, eyes burning with a fierce intelligence.