Hereward 05 - The Immortals (30 page)

‘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.’

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.’

‘With your own dog upon the throne, you can keep your lands, your riches,
and
act as general to the new emperor.’

Roussel’s smile faded as he looked towards his milling warriors. Karas Verinus, Ragener and Justin pushed their way out of the crowd. The Roman clutched a large basket to his chest. When he saw the Viking he gave a sly smile and started towards him, but the sea wolf hung back. His yellow teeth were now visible through the hole where Kraki had torn away part of his cheek. He would not make the mistake of coming too close again.

Kraki spat a mouthful of phlegm. He was no fool, this Norman. If John Doukas was to fall, the warlord had already allied himself with the brutal general and that mad, blood-slaked boy who would be the next to steal the crown. ‘Karas will accompany that Roman survivor into the city to deliver your message to the emperor, filled with shock and despair, and to vouch for all that is said,’ the Viking went on. ‘And then, as you lay siege, he will be a power on the inside, twisting things to your … and his … advantage.’

‘He is a hero of the empire, for all his faults,’ Roussel said, watching the general stride over, Justin at his side. ‘He will have the ear of the emperor’s circle. If he says he fears our power, so will they.’

‘At last we no longer have to hide behind pretence,’ Karas said when he arrived. ‘Soon Constantinople will fall.’

‘In time, all traitors fall too, to the axe,’ Kraki growled.

‘And you are above such games,’ the general sneered. ‘A man of honour.’

Justin leaned forward to peer into the Viking’s face. His eyes were glassy, unblinking. Kraki felt the odd sensation that there was nothing behind them. He understood war, but he did not understand this.

‘Do you see the sands of his life running away?’ Karas said to the boy. ‘Do you see the flesh falling from the skull?’

The boy continued to stare.

Kraki broke that gaze and looked to the general. ‘If you put this thing upon the throne, you will damn yourself.’

Karas smiled. Pushing the basket beneath the Viking’s nose, he whipped off the lid. A mass of snakes roiled in the dark depths. ‘Your new companions. After the feast this even, I will come for you. You have my word on that.’

Placing one hand upon Justin’s head, the general steered him away, back towards the camp. Roussel watched them go, his expression wintry.

‘I judge a man by his friends,’ Kraki said.

‘This is war, Viking. You have seen enough blood to know that if we only found allies in friends we would die alone on the battlefield.’ Without looking back, Roussel strode away.

SILVERY MOONLIGHT CARVED
a path through the deep shadow of the tent. In the triangle of open flaps, stars glittered in the sable sky. Drifting in on the breeze, the sweet scent of roasting lamb mingled with the tang of woodsmoke. From far across the camp, where the great fire roared, jubilant voices rang out, and raucous laughter, and song. The feast had been in full flow for long hours now, since the fat red sun had turned the landscape ruddy. Soon it would be done.

In the corner of the tent, Kraki salivated. His belly was empty and had been for more than a day. There was no need to waste good food on a man who was not long for this world. But he had years since made his peace with death. He had always dreamed it would come on the battlefield, with his blood thundering in his head, and his good right arm laying waste to his foes. An ending that would earn him a place at the high table in Valhalla. But here he was, trussed up like a deer waiting to be butchered for the pot. Aye, justice, there was little of it in this world.

One dream remained: that his spear-brothers had survived and would bring vengeance down upon the heads of Karas Verinus and all who walked with him.

The voices echoing from the campfire dimmed. The silences in between the songs grew longer. He found himself straining to listen for the sound of a foot on the baked mud of the track. For the whisper of his death approaching.

A shadow fell across the moonlit path and he jerked. He had heard nothing.

His moment had come.

‘Do not tarry there,’ he growled, struggling into a seated position. ‘Look into my eyes, if you dare.’

‘You are so tired of life you would rush to the end?’ A silhouette loomed in the entrance to the tent. So certain had he been that it was Karas Verinus approaching that Kraki found himself struggling to recognize the man who stood there. But then the figure shifted and the pale light lit the features of Roussel de Bailleul.

Kraki snorted. ‘You have come to watch my gutting? Is there not enough song and wine at the feast?’

The warlord raised his right hand to show the goblet he was holding. A toast. He sipped it, his gaze never leaving the glowering captive.

‘Karas will be here soon enough. He eats his meat and watches the fire,’ the warlord murmured, adding, ‘while he sharpens his knife on a whetstone.’

‘You know that Roman bastard will turn on you the moment he sees an advantage.’

Ignoring his words, the warlord began to circle the prisoner. ‘You could join my army. I can always use good fighting men. Even Karas Verinus would not dare attack you then.’

‘You would have me standing at your back in a battle?’ Kraki laughed without humour.

‘You would not attack me if you agreed to fight under my banner.’

‘You speak without any doubt.’

‘Aye. I have no doubt.’ Roussel squatted in front of the Viking, levelling his unwavering gaze. ‘Men of honour know each other.’ He raised his index finger to his left eye. ‘We see it, here. We know it with a look, as one wolf recognizes another, as a brother knows a brother. And we know men without honour too. They are our true enemies, not the ones we face across the field of battle. They are the ones who steal life away, grain by grain.’

This was true; Kraki had learned as much from his father. ‘I would kill an honourable man, if it meant I lived to see a new dawn.’

‘Aye. But you would not gut him and fill him with vipers.’ Standing, Roussel wandered into the shadows at the rear of the tent. His voice floated back, thoughtful. ‘Some of my men fought with William at the battle of Ely. They told me of the courage of the English they faced. Stories of Hereward and his war-band, few in number, near-starving. To come so close to victory, to smell it on the wind, and then be betrayed … that must feel like a spear to the heart.’

‘It is war.’

‘True.’ Sipping at his goblet, Roussel wandered back in front of the captive. ‘Instead of freeing your land from my countrymen, it was you who were sent into exile. A harsh judgement, but you kept your heads upon your shoulders. To fight another day. But a defeat like that wounds in ways the eye cannot see. I know. Tell me … if all had changed, where would you be now?’

Kraki peered into the dark, and saw across fields and forests and the wide whale road to a rain-lashed bog. And standing under the willows he saw Acha, hair like raven-wings, skin as pale as snow. He felt peace. There would be no more running, no more fighting. ‘England,’ he muttered.

‘We are all haunted by days long gone. What was, what if, what might be again.’ Roussel drained his wine and tossed his goblet away. Striding to the entrance, he glanced out into the night and then returned. His voice lowered. ‘Days long gone. Times that shaped us. The land on which we walked, the people we knew. And in days of hardship we long to be back there, to feel the gentle touch and loving embrace. To hear laughter we barely remember. There is an oak tree on the edge of my village, where my father liked to sit. There he would tell me tales of when our folk came to Normandy in their dragon-ships, filled with fire and fury. Stories of great battles, of warriors who made the earth shake. There are days when I would hear those tales again. When I would sit with my father in the sun and learn from his wisdom.’

In the moonlight, Kraki glimpsed the flash of silver. Roussel was holding his knife. The Viking felt his heart leap. Now he knew why the warlord was there, what all these strange words meant. An honourable death. Freedom from the suffering that Karas Verinus promised. Raising his head, Kraki sucked in a breath of cool air. He was ready.