Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (33 page)

Death was coming to the city, and on this day he had brought it.

His hood pulled low, the Mercian edged away from the throng on the walls. He felt pleased that his men had lost none of their edge after their hardships.

Slipping through the streets, he made his way to the monastery of St George. The grand central dome was framed against the clear blue sky, the white stone incandescent. With its many windows and marching rows of columns, he thought how far removed it looked from the gloomy minsters of Ely and Eoferwic. Back in those grey places, the rain dripped through the thatch of the refectory and the wind howled under the boards. Here the majesty of God was burnished by the sun.

Within, he lost himself in the maze of corridors until he found a monk who could direct him to where the newly arrived English cleric toiled. Hereward found Alric kneeling at the shrine in the church, swathed in the sweet aroma of incense. His friend was laying down the offerings that had been delivered to the monastery gates that morning.

Alric seemed to sense his presence, for he looked round. For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze.

‘Have you come to take my other hand?’ the monk enquired when the Mercian ventured over. But he caught himself, adding, ‘That was unfair. You did what you had to do. You saved my life, and for that you have my eternal thanks.’

Hereward felt relief that his friend did not hate him. He had feared he would, and that they would never speak again. ‘We have saved each other’s life time and again across the years, and there will be more times to come, no doubt.’ He glanced down at the stump, bound tightly with a clean cloth. ‘If there was another way, I would have taken it.’

‘Next time you need a hand removing, I will be the first to step forward,’ the churchman said in a sardonic tone. Glancing around to make sure they could not be overheard, he added, ‘The monks are abuzz with talk of ten bodies found in the water beyond the walls.’

‘And you think I had something to do with that?’

‘Did you?’

The Mercian showed a humourless smile. His friend knew him too well. ‘Once again we are at war, monk. We came here in good faith, to earn our fortune through hard work and the battle-skills that are all we know. Instead, we have been mocked, and spat upon, and now we are being hunted down like dogs. Is this the way things are done in Constantinople?’

‘Good men walk a hard road.’

‘Good?’ Hereward winced. ‘No man would ever call me that … unless you were at my side to guide me along the right path.’

‘And you shall have my aid again.’ Alric clapped his remaining hand on his friend’s arm. ‘My wrist aches like the devil, but the wound is healing well. I will leave this sanctuary today and stand by you. And as we did in the fens, we will fight the one who hunts you down.’

‘His name is Victor Verinus.’

The monk frowned. ‘I have seen him, here, this last night. Speaking with his brother Nathaniel. A monk was poisoned. On the very day Nathaniel Verinus was made sacrist in his place, Victor came with his son, Justin, and they talked in the chamber long into the night. I heard their laughter myself.’

‘Poisoned? Is that how you monks conduct your business? At least a warrior looks in his enemy’s eyes before he kills him.’

The monk glanced down at his feet, uncomfortable. ‘The church has great power here in Constantinople. Even the ear of the emperor himself, so it is said. This is not how we did things in Jarrow. But men who seek power will do terrible things, as you know as well as I.’

The door at the far end of the nave creaked open and a corpulent, bald man lumbered in.

‘You think this Nathaniel poisoned the monk?’ Hereward lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘I could not say.’

‘But it is at least possible?’

‘From what I have seen of Nathaniel, anything is possible. He spends his time with boys in his chamber with the door closed. And Victor’s boy too …’ Alric bit his lip. ‘No, I cannot say. Sometimes I think the worst, and that is not how God would have it. But Nathaniel has little kindness in him, that is certain.’

Hereward nodded, turning the news over in his head. ‘A sacrist has no power. Overseeing the holy books and relics … why would any man kill for that?’

Alric shook his head.

‘Though I would rather have you at my side, I think it best you stay here for a while,’ the Mercian mused aloud. ‘Be my eyes and ears in this monastery.’

The churchman shrugged. ‘As you will. But you may be seeing plots where there are only shadows.’

The bald monk heaved his bulk towards them. A eunuch, by the looks of him, Hereward thought. He had met the kind before, in Wincestre when he was a boy.

‘This is Neophytos,’ Alric said, leaning in. ‘He is the cousin of Maximos. He has cared for me well.’

Clasping Hereward’s fingers in his chubby hands, the bald monk introduced himself. ‘Maximos speaks well of you,’ he gushed. ‘A man of honour, and a brave one too. And now you work for the Nepotes—’

‘Work for them?’ Hereward’s eyes narrowed. ‘We are allies, of a kind.’

Neophytos bowed in apology. ‘My English is poor. But your aid is still welcomed. My family have few friends, and they have suffered greatly.’

‘There has been little justice in your world,’ the Mercian agreed, ‘but now Victor Verinus has chosen the wrong enemy.’

Neophytos smiled, and Hereward thought he saw tears spring to the monk’s eyes. When the eunuch had promised to aid Alric in any way he could, he took his leave. But Hereward could see he had been deeply moved by the offer of support.

As Alric led the way back to the gate, the Mercian said, ‘It is a strange war where you know not what your enemy wants, nor who all your enemies truly are.’

‘We have much to learn if we are to survive in Constantinople,’ the monk agreed.

‘Aye, and learn quickly. Monks poisoned. Men’s throats slit in the street …’ He shook his head, baffled. All he had worried about for a long time was that his friend might die, but now that fear had been assuaged, another trouble surfaced. ‘Monk,’ he began hesitantly, ‘when we were in Sabta you said a strange thing. That you killed my brother.’

Alric’s shoulders sagged. ‘I thought … I hoped … that was a dream.’ He sucked in a long, deep breath. ‘Then I can hide it no longer. I must make my confession, for truly it has lain upon my heart like a rock until I thought I might die. Your brother Redwald is dead. I killed him.’

Hereward reeled. The brother he had loved and trusted all his life, but who had murdered his wife Turfrida and cut off her head, who had betrayed the English to their enemies. Who would have slit Hereward’s throat in his sleep, if it would have benefited him. ‘When was this done?’ he demanded.

The monk was trembling. ‘Redwald lay in wait to kill you after you had met King William at his palace in Wincestre.’ He raised his remaining palm and stared at it in horror. ‘I found him there, though he was already badly injured. And then I … I strangled him, Hereward. With my own hands. I took a life, God help my soul.’

Hereward could scarce believe what he was hearing. His belief that Redwald still lived had been the bitterest blow when England fell behind them, but now he was not sure how he felt. ‘That vengeance should have been mine,’ he said.

‘No!’ Alric grasped his friend’s shoulder. ‘If you had slain the man you once loved, the guilt would have eaten its way into your heart. You would never be able to escape that act. I know you well, Hereward. You speak of your devil, but you are not that thing. You are haunted by every savagery. I could not stand by and see you doom yourself, brother or not.’ He wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

As he let the news settle on him, Hereward realized a weight had lifted from his shoulders. His father was dead. His brother was dead. The ones who had done so much to ruin his life. Perhaps he was free of the lure of days gone by, for the first time. He smiled, not used to such freedom. ‘If you forgive me for taking your hand, then I forgive you for taking the life of my brother. We have both punished each other, and saved each other. Mayhap that is our curse, eh, monk?’ He crushed Alric to him until the churchman wriggled like an eel and gasped for breath.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out into the busy streets. Perhaps there would be a fresh dawn for all of them in Constantinople after all.

THE SHATTERED BODY
sprawled across the heap of creamy stones waiting to be shaped by the masons. Spatters of blood had dried to rust-brown in the glare of the morning sun and fat flies were already buzzing lazily around the remains. The reek of death rose in the heat.

Kneeling beside the broken corpse, Wulfrun shielded his eyes and looked up the dizzying height of scaffolding to the top of the aqueduct of Valens. There was no doubt that the victim had fallen from that lofty perch. The guild of masons had been repairing the water course for long days now, toiling under the hot sun atop the rickety timber frame. But had this poor soul taken his own life, or had he been dragged up the ladders and hurled off the top during the night? ‘Easier ways to end your days,’ he mused.

Ricbert prowled around the bloody masonry. ‘Perhaps he was admiring the view. Or trying to get closer to God. Too much wine …’ he pressed a finger under his nose against the stink, ‘thought he could fly with the birds …’

‘Ten bodies in the Bosphorus this morn. This one here. Even for Constantinople, we are knee-deep in slaughter. Nothing from your spies?’

The smaller man shook his head. ‘That is fine cloth,’ he said, scrutinizing the clothes on the body. ‘That pouch bulges with coin. He has not been robbed. Too rich to try flying from the top of the aqueduct.’

‘Even the wealthy can have the weight of the world upon their shoulders, Ricbert.’

‘Still, I would rather be rich and miserable than poor and the same.’

The skull had been smashed to pieces by the impact. Wulfrun glanced down at one hand, draped across a mason’s mallet and chisel. A large gold signet ring gleamed. Frowning, he stood up, and took a step back. ‘This is Apasios Basilacius, yes?’

Apasios was a fawning, acid-tongued man who oversaw the running of much of the young emperor’s day-to-day business. He was rarely away from Michael’s side and some said that, in his own waspish way, he carried as much influence as the finance minister Nikephoritzes himself.

‘So much blood on his fine tunic,’ Ricbert said with a shrug. ‘He would be disgusted with himself.’

Wulfrun felt uneasy. He had a sense of a shadow forming in Constantinople, one that matched the growing dark beyond the city’s walls. So many bloody events – a stabbing here, a poisoning there – and all seemingly unconnected. And yet he knew these Romans well enough by now. They were not as plain as the English, even those nobles who whispered and plotted at the king’s court. They weaved their skeins with subtle hands, and oft-times the connecting threads were invisible until they were pulled taut.

Ricbert coughed and muttered, ‘A bad day gets worse. Put steel in your spine.’

Glancing up, Wulfrun saw Victor Verinus approaching at the head of his band of cut-throats. The commander clenched his jaw. He was in no mood for more of the Stallion’s hungry comments about Juliana. But for once the general’s true feelings showed on his leathery face: a scowl. He was carrying a sack in one hand, and his strange, moon-faced son wandered at his heels like a lapdog.

‘What use is the Varangian Guard if Constantinople falls into chaos around the emperor?’ he boomed. ‘How can you protect him when swords are drawn and lives are taken without a second thought?’

‘The emperor is safe enough,’ Wulfrun replied, unconsciously flinging his cloak over his shoulder so that his sword was visible. ‘But you seem cut to the heart.’

‘This was left upon my doorstep.’ Gripping the bottom of the sack, Victor emptied the contents out into the masonry dust.

A head bounced, rolled and came to a stop near Wulfrun’s boot. The white eyes stared up at him. The mouth was slack, the teeth jutting this way and that. The bloody skin hanging from the neck was ragged. No clean cut that, no axe or sword stroke. It looked as though it had been hacked at with a knife.

‘One of the bodies we pulled from the waters was missing a head,’ Ricbert said. ‘All the parts are together now. I can rest easy.’

Wulfrun rested the tip of his boot on the forehead and rolled the head back to Victor. ‘One of your men?’

The Stallion shifted with momentary discomfort. Wulfrun felt pleased. The general was hiding something, but this business had troubled him enough to bring his worries to the surface. ‘He has done some work for me in the past,’ the man grunted. ‘But that is neither here nor there. We should not have to endure such slaughter. We are not barbarians. Those responsible must face justice.’

‘All who threaten the emperor, and Constantinople, will be judged. Their crimes are punished, sooner or later.’

Victor’s eyes narrowed. ‘There are enemies abroad in Constantinople, I tell you. They come with the flow of miserable shit that streams in from our frontiers day and night. They hide among us, plotting … plotting against the emperor himself.’

‘Give me names, then. Show me where they live. I will bring these plotters to justice.’

‘My faith in the Varangian Guard wanes fast. You may have won the hearts of all the women in this city, but you failed us at Manzikert. I think you have grown weak. Too much gold, too much wine.’ Victor smiled, turning the blade.

Wulfrun flinched. They both knew that Victor twisted the truth. But to show anger would be taken as weakness, so instead he swept a hand towards the body at their feet. ‘And was Apasios Basilacius also murdered by these plotters?’

Victor Verinus did not even glance down at the tangled remains. ‘Murder? Are you certain? I had heard that Apasios had lost so much gold at the hippodrome that soon he would be begging for scraps on the Mese. Despair drives a man to terrible things.’