Hereward 05 - The Immortals Page 7

  The Roman held out both hands, his voice too light for the weight of the command he had just given. ‘Someone had to pay for Sabas Apion’s death. Now his kin will feel that justice has been done.’

  Hereward swallowed, knowing that if his hands were free he would have choked the life from Nikephoritzes’ counsel there and then, though it would cost him his life. He could hear the lamentations of his men, voices cracking with fury as they cried for vengeance.

  ‘Still, it is not a fair balance,’ Falkon continued, speaking as if to an old friend in the forum. ‘One English cut-throat for a man like Sabas Apion. There yet may be other deaths among your men. You have been warned.’

  ‘Is the hippodrome not enough for you Romans now?’ Hereward spat. ‘You must find your joy in tormenting good men who have done no wrong?’

  Falkon levelled his implacable gaze on the Mercian. ‘I have learned much about you this day, Hereward of the English. It would seem you are not merely a barbarian with a sharp blade, as I first thought. I have heard how you and your men fought against the Norman king who conquered your land, and how you came within a hair’s breadth of defeating him. A great warrior, they say. A man who could be of some use to the empire in these difficult times.’

  Hereward’s eyes flickered towards Anna Dalassene, but she was looking dreamily out to sea, as if she were paying no heed to the confrontation.

  ‘I have been moved to set aside your punishment. For now, at least,’ Falkon continued. ‘I have been told you have been axes-for-hire in the employ of our army. But now you will fight for your life, and that of your men. Succeed and you will live, as will your brothers, and I will consider the account of Sabas Apion closed with the death we have witnessed this day. Fail us, and all of you will pay the price for the murder you committed.’

  ‘Is that just?’ Hereward snapped.

  ‘It is what it is,’ the Roman replied, holding out one hand, palm up. ‘We do not allow a citizen, and a great one at that, to be slain with impunity. What say you?’

  Hereward could barely hear the words for the thunder of blood in his head. Deep inside, he could feel his devil yearning to be set free. But there would be a time for revenge. For now, he had his men’s lives to save. ‘What do you demand of us?’

  Falkon nodded slowly, a smile flickering on the edges of his lips. ‘There may be wisdom in you yet.’ He looked past Hereward to Wulfrun and called, ‘Tell him what we demand of him in return for his life and the lives of his men.’ Turning, the Roman walked back into the huddle of nobles and led them away. Hereward sneered. The man thought himself above giving orders to fighting dogs.

  At the edge of the Boukoleon palace, Anna glanced back. She had kept her word. He was free. But had she also agreed with Falkon that one of his men should die to balance the account? Hereward knew he could not trust her, could not trust any of the Romans in this city of deceit.

  ‘Know that I would not have seen one of your men killed.’ Wulfrun had appeared beside him. The commander glanced at the headless body with a look of distaste.

  ‘This will not be forgotten.’

  Wulfrun nodded, understanding. ‘Take the body away. And see it is treated well,’ he barked to his men. ‘I cannot put this right. But your man will get a good Christian burial, I will see to that.’

  ‘Is this how things are done in Constantinople?’

  ‘This is not England.’ The commander spun Hereward round and slit his bonds. ‘And there are some who say the days will get darker before the sun shines again.’

  Hereward watched his men seething with passion. Faces turned towards him, demanding retribution for their fallen friend, their murdered friend, but he could only answer them with a look. ‘I have already made one deal with the Devil,’ he growled, ‘in Wincestre, with William the Bastard, to save the lives of many. That cost us our home, our kin, our friends. Tell me what price is demanded this time.’

  As he began to lead the Mercian back towards the Boukoleon palace, Wulfrun’s face darkened. ‘Constantinople is beset by enemies on all sides. Only the emperor and those close to him seem unaware of the axe that hangs over all our heads. One day the Turks will overrun this place, you heed my words, and then this city will be awash with blood. But now there is a new enemy in the east, one who is familiar to the emperor, and Nikephoritzes. A Norman. A seasoned warrior who styles himself upon William the Bastard.’

  Hereward flinched. Even now the name made his stomach clench with disgust.

  ‘Roussel de Bailleul sees himself as a conqueror, too. He has carved out a kingdom and built an army of Norman warriors and axes-for-hire. And now he has taken the Caesar himself, John Doukas, captive. Roussel may wish to ransom him for gold, to pay for his fighting men. But Nikephoritzes is afrit that there will be blood. That Roussel will take the Caesar’s head. That he may even raise a challenge to the emperor’s power.’

  A shadow fell across Hereward as he passed through the great arch and into the palace courtyard. Puzzled, he looked around at activity everywhere, boys racing with messages, slaves hauling sacks of provisions. ‘What unfolds?’

  ‘War,’ Wulfrun replied, his voice heavy. ‘Bloodshed. Death. This is a bad business. You thought your days of killing Normans were done. But it seems that Anna Dalassene has convinced Nikephoritzes that you and only you know how the Normans fight, and the eunuch would put that knowledge to good use. You and your men will ride east, into the heart of this murdering bastard’s kingdom, through his vast army, and rescue the Caesar. Or you will die trying.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SKY WAS on fire. Under the rising sun, the soaring dome of the Hagia Sophia glowed a dull red as a cool breeze licked over the rooftops. The greatest city on earth still slumbered. But in the yard of the Boukoleon palace, a line of warriors was on the move. At the head of his spear-brothers, Hereward paused and looked to the east. Soon it would be as hot as an oven. Waves of heat crushing down, dust clogging nostrils. England seemed but a distant memory at that moment.

  The Mercian glanced back at his loyal war-band. They had tried to travel light. Their leathers and furs had been left upon their beds, but they were still weighted by their dented helms and hauberks, gleaming now that the rust had been scoured from them in sacks of sand. He caught the smell of paint from their shields, brightened for the coming campaign, as was the English way.

  Nodding, Hereward felt proud of what he saw. Whatever was to come upon the hard road, they would face it together. But his men’s knuckles were white where they gripped their spears and axes, their faces sullen and simmering with loathing. They wanted revenge for Turold’s death perhaps more than they wanted the gold and the glory.

  Stepping beside him, Kraki glowered through the mass of battle scars that glowed pink above his wild beard. ‘When we leave the city behind, we should keep going. We have no friends here.’

  ‘We have not run from a fight before.’

  ‘This is not England,’ the Viking said, words that seemed to have been voiced many a time in recent weeks by all of the men. ‘What is there for us here?’ His voice was strained, the emotion close beneath the surface. Hereward guessed he was still yearning for the woman he loved. But that was the dream of a child, though the Mercian would never say such a thing.

  ‘We will carve out our place here or die trying,’ he said simply.

  Kraki snorted, not convinced.

  Towering over his friend, Guthrinc narrowed his eyes at Hereward. ‘I have seen that look before, when I dangled you over a bog for your crimes as a lad. You have a plan.’

  The Mercian turned, giving nothing away.

  The fruity stink of dung floated in the air. Horses stamped and snorted as boys scattered handfuls of hay. Low voices droned from the far side of the yard where around fifty warriors milled. More drifted out from the door to the palace refectory by the moment. Hereward studied the lines of the noses, the cheekbones, the dark eyes. The tunics were fine and ornate, brightly coloured in eggshell blue, and amber, and
crimson, and embroidered with intricate designs, the clothes of wealthy men.

  They were Romans to a man, Hereward knew. No foreigners here. That had been the order of Nikephoritzes. But for all the arrogance these strutting warriors showed, Hereward could see that they were only making a play at being soldiers. They were not seasoned. He glanced from face to face, but there were no scars. And they had yet to put on their armour. In heaps, the helms and mail-shirts shone in the sunlight, all of it pristine, never tested in battle. Hereward grunted. The Romans were soft. They had too much gold, too many comforts, and nothing that they held dear enough to fight for with their lives. Even the emperor knew this. That was why he filled his Varangian Guard with English and Vikings who knew how to fight to the death, the fiercest warriors in the world.

  Kraki snorted. ‘We are to ride with them? Should we tuck them in at night too?’

  ‘Nikephoritzes dreams of past glories,’ Hereward replied. ‘He knows his army is little more than a tattered shroud over a rotting body. The empire’s enemies laugh at the forces the Romans can command.’ He shrugged. ‘Since the battle of Manzikert, his best fighters – axes-for-hire from the north, all of them – have drifted away, or sided with those who seek to unseat the emperor. And all the empire is left with—’

  ‘Is the mud beneath our feet,’ Kraki grunted.

  Guthrinc shielded his eyes as he watched the Romans. They were laughing, clapping each other on the shoulders. ‘You would not think it by looking at them. They swagger as if they were the heroes of this godforsaken place.’ He frowned. ‘War is serious business.’

  Hereward glanced back at his spear-brothers. They looked a shabby band by comparison, wild-bearded, scarred, their tunics torn and mended time and again, their helms dented. Those who did not know them would have thought them rogues and cut-throats. Their eyes flickered with contempt, their faces like stone, as they studied the ones they were meant to fight alongside.

  ‘Nikephoritzes is no fool,’ he continued. ‘Though the emperor seems blind to every part of his business, his counsel knows the empire is crumbling. The Romans cannot afford to squat here in the city with no army of any worth to defend them. He would build it up to be a powerful force.’

  ‘With these?’ Kraki spat, sweeping one hand out towards the milling recruits.

  ‘They call them the Athanatoi, the ones who are without death.’

  Kraki sniggered. ‘We will see if they still hold that name after the first battle.’

  ‘In days long gone, the empire had a great army, one to be feared,’ Hereward went on. ‘And among the tagmata was a war-band called by this name. These Immortals swooped down upon the Rus like a bolt from the heavens and left only a sea of blood in their wake. They were knights on horseback, sheathed as much in gold as iron, nobles all of them.’

  ‘Ah, magic!’ Guthrinc said, raising one finger in the air. ‘Nikephoritzes thinks that if he gives these ones the same name he will summon up the spirits of those warriors.’

  Hereward smiled. ‘Aye, you may well be right. But he is clever too. These are also all Roman nobles, because Nikephoritzes believes they are the only ones to be trusted to be loyal to the emperor. And if they find glory in these coming days, the word will go out and their fellows will join the army once more. And all in Constantinople will give praise to these wondrous warriors with the spirits of old. And to Nikephoritzes too,’ he added in a sardonic tone.

  Guthrinc cracked his knuckles. ‘A trial, then.’

  ‘Aye, by fire.’ Kraki spat into the dust. ‘And when they all die on the end of Norman blades, I suppose we will be blamed.’

  ‘You have taken many blows to that thick skull of yours, but they have not dashed out your wits,’ Hereward replied with a nod. ‘I would wager that is another reason why they are sending a band of barbarians to war alongside their fine sons.’

  ‘Who told you all this?’ Guthrinc asked with a pointed note of suspicion. ‘That woman?’ When Hereward did not reply, the tall man added, ‘And I wonder what else she told you that you are keeping in your tunic. I have never known Hereward of Mercia to ride into battle without a plan, and a good one at that.’

  ‘All in good time.’ Hereward spied a familiar face in the crowd of soldiers. Alexios Comnenos strode among the men readying for battle as if he were not part of them. None spoke to him. He did not smile, nor did he nod in greeting. He passed among them like a ghost, heading towards the horses. Hereward understood the Romans’ contempt. Alexios was younger than all of them, yet his renown in battle surpassed every one. And they knew, as Hereward knew, that Alexios’ mother was a force in their city. She would not rest until Alexios had achieved a level of success that she deemed worthy. A boy hero with a powerful mother who always thrust her son to the front. Hereward grinned. No surprise that these warriors only had cold looks to mask their jealousy.

  Yet the Mercian liked what he saw. There was a strength in this young man’s face that was not visible in the others. Here was someone who had seen battle, aye, and hardship too.

  When he caught Hereward’s eye, he grinned and walked over. Clapping a hand on the Mercian’s shoulder, he said, ‘I did not have the time to give you the thanks you deserved for saving my life.’

  Kraki eyed the new arrival with suspicion. ‘Is this the lamb we are supposed to wrap in blankets and keep safe from all harm?’ The Viking looked Alexios up and down. ‘I see why your mother thinks you are still a babe in arms.’

  The Roman grimaced. ‘Why speak you of my mother?’

  Kraki leaned into the young man’s face and bared his teeth. ‘She begged us to form a shield wall around you because she thinks you a poor little rabbit who cannot stand up for himself.’

  Alexios’ cheeks flushed, as much with anger as embarrassment, Hereward thought. ‘Pay no heed to Kraki. It is his way to push you until you push him back.’

  ‘Is what he says true?’ Alexios demanded, rounding on the Mercian.

  ‘No. And yes. Your mother does not doubt that you are a fine warrior. But it is the knife at the back in the dark of the night that she fears.’

  ‘Ready yourself for a few more knives at the back when those good Romans see the filthy English are on your side,’ Guthrinc said with a rumbling laugh.

  ‘I need no one to watch my back,’ Alexios snarled.

  Leaning in, Hereward whispered, ‘You have enemies who may well call themselves friends. And in that kind of battle, all men need allies.’

  Alexios hesitated, then nodded. ‘It would be an honour to ride with you.’ His gaze flickered to Kraki. ‘You, not so much.’

  The other English drew in to study the man they had been told about. Hereward felt pleased that Alexios did not recoil at their fierce expressions and ragged appearance. ‘You will know all their names soon enough. They will defend you with their lives, of that you can be sure.’

  ‘My mother must be paying you well,’ the Roman said.

  ‘She bought my life,’ Hereward replied, ‘and after that …’ He paused, thinking. ‘She gave me words that are worth more than gold. Or at least as much.’ He smiled when he saw Alexios’ baffled expression, and Guthrinc’s and Kraki’s too.

  The sound of iron clattering on wood rang out across the yard and the babble of voices stilled. A man with a hooked nose was banging his sword upon his shield. The commander, no doubt, ready to give the orders.

  As Hereward led the English towards their comrades in arms, Alexios jabbed a finger into Kraki’s face. ‘You,’ he said, ‘need a bath. You reek of vinegar.’ He strode ahead to the sound of Guthrinc’s chuckles.

  When the war-band gathered on the edge of the group, Hereward could see the Romans eyeing the new arrivals with barely concealed contempt. The commander allowed himself a brief, and obvious, smile when he looked across at them, then turned his attention back to his men. ‘Welcome our new brothers,’ he said. ‘They know how the Normans fight, so I am told, and we might find some use for them once we are in the thick of battle.’ />
  Laughter rippled through the assembled Romans. Hereward saw Sighard’s cheeks colour. Kraki clenched the haft of his axe until his knuckles turned white. But every one of Hereward’s men showed a cold face, undeterred by the mockery. They all knew that the proof would come once they were knee-deep in blood and shit, and the screams of the dying would drown out any laughter.

  The speaker turned back to the English and held Hereward’s eyes. ‘My name is Tiberius Gabras,’ he said. ‘I command the Athanatoi, and while you ride with us I command you too. If I say you ride into the enemy’s arrows, you ride. Do you hear me?’

  ‘We fought in your army. We know what an order is,’ Kraki said, glaring.

  With a smirk, Tiberius looked around his men. ‘They fought in our army,’ he repeated to much laughter. ‘And can you ride?’

  ‘If we ride badly, it is because your army’s commanders taught us,’ Hereward boomed. Some of his men did ride badly, he could not deny that. Only a few had spent much time on horseback while they were in England. But he had forced them to persevere in their learning, for among the fighters of Constantinople it was a skill that was much valued. A few had taken to it well, Sighard for one. But he would not want to risk sending them into battle on chargers. They fought their best with their feet on the ground, behind a solid shield wall.

  Tiberius held his gaze for a moment, sizing him up. Hereward flashed a grin so the commander would know that here was a man who would not be easily cowed. The Roman’s face darkened and he looked away.

  ‘The slaves will find you horses,’ he said. ‘Ships are ready to take us across the Bosphorus, and then we ride east … to glory. We will fall upon the Normans like a storm of steel, and they will know once and for all the might of the empire. The Caesar will be in our hands before their blood has drained into the dust.’

  The Immortals cheered, raising their blades high so they glinted in the light of the rising sun. They were too confident, Hereward thought. And that was the first step on the road to the boneyard.