Imperial Fire (3 page)

‘Does the emperor live?’

The officer pointed ahead and Vallon spurred on, overtaking friend and foe alike. The Normans were so desperate to catch Alexius that they barely registered the Frank’s passing until one of them, strappingly built, mounted on a particularly fine horse and wearing the sash of a senior commander, heard Vallon shout an order in French and steered towards him.

‘You’re a Frank. You must be regretting this day’s employment.’

Vallon dug in his spurs. ‘Fortunes of war.’

The knight couldn’t match his pace. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Vallon.’

‘Not so fast, sir.’

Vallon cocked an eye back to see the man raise his helmet, revealing a handsome, ruddy face.

‘I’m Bohemund. If you survive the slaughter, apply to me for a position. You’ll find me in the palace at Constantinople.’

Vallon booted his horse on. The mob of horsemen ahead of him thinned to reveal a core of the Imperial Guard bunched around a horseman accoutred in splendid armour and quilted silk. About fifty Norman cavalry were trying to force their way through the cordon. Vallon galloped up behind them, slung his shield over his back, holstered his mace and drew both his swords – the beautiful Toledo blade he’d taken off a Moorish captain in Spain, the sabre-like paramerion slung at his left hip. The exultant and single-minded Normans never expected to be attacked from behind and didn’t see him coming. Trained since childhood to wield weapons either-handed, he rode between two of the trailing Normans, dropped his reins and cut down first one and then the other in the space of a heartbeat.

The audacious attack unbalanced him. He had to discard the paramerion in order to recover his seat and reins. He was no longer a limber youth and he wouldn’t be trying that move again.

A Norman officer signalled with violent gestures and a dozen mailed horsemen converged on Vallon. He glanced back to see how many of his squadron were still with him. Not more than twenty.

‘Hold them up,’ Vallon shouted. His eye fell on Gorka, a Basque commander of five. ‘You. Stay close.’

Now the ground ahead was almost clear and Vallon could see that the Normans had broken through the emperor’s defensive screen. Three of them attacked the emperor simultaneously from the right. Alexius, mounted on the finest horse gold could buy, couldn’t avoid their weapons. One of the Normans planted his lance in the horse’s leather-shielded flank. The other two drove their weapons into the emperor’s side, the force of the impact pitching him to the left at an angle impossible to sustain.

Fifty yards adrift, helpless to intervene, Vallon waited for the emperor to fall.
So ends the empire
.

But Alexius didn’t fall. His right foot had become entangled in the stirrup and somehow he managed to cling on. Two more Normans charged in from the left to deliver the killing strike. They aimed with deliberation, both lances taking Alexius in the left side of his ribcage.

If Vallon hadn’t seen it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it. Like the previous attack, the points didn’t penetrate the armour. Instead, the force of the blows jolted the emperor back into the saddle and he rode on, three lance shafts dangling from man and mount, the iron heads trapped between the lamellar plates.

Vallon didn’t see the final attempt on the emperor’s life until it was too late. A Norman angled across him, spiked mace held high, determined to win glory. Lashing his horse into greater effort, Vallon strove to catch up. The emperor turned his bloody face as the Norman drew back his mace to crush it.

Gorka shot past with sword angled behind his shoulder. ‘He’s mine,’ he shouted, and sent the Norman’s head bouncing over the plain with one mighty swipe.

Vallon had outstripped the enemy and the river was less than a quarter of a mile away. He drew alongside the emperor. Blood flowed from a wound in Alexius’s forehead.

‘Cross the river and you’ll be safe.’

Alexius raised a hand in acknowledgement and Vallon pressed close to the emperor. Together they crashed into the river and forged through the current. On the other side a Byzantine force large enough to repel the Norman pursuit coalesced around the emperor. Men who just a short time ago had thought only of their own lives lifted Alexius to the ground, exulting at his deliverance. Surgeons hurried forward to treat him. A piece of his forehead hung in a bloody flap. Vallon dismounted and stood back while the surgeons did their work.

An officer hurried past and clapped him on the back. ‘Praise the Lord. The emperor will live.’

Vallon recognised the man who’d spat in his face the night before. After the hideous events of the day, reason snapped. He shot out an arm, seized the man and yanked him round. ‘No thanks to you,’ he said. And then, swamped by emotion, he slapped the man to the ground and stood over him, sword poised. ‘Easy to prate about courage and honour in camp. Not so easy to convert words into action in the face of battle-hardened warriors who don’t give a shit about your noble lineage.’

The officer struggled to his feet, drawing his sword. Vallon swatted it aside and crashed his shield against the officer’s head, knocking him down again.

‘Get up if you dare.’

Hands seized Vallon and dragged him away. A Greek soldier drew back his sword to strike.

‘Stop this,’ a voice shouted. ‘Unhand that man.’

Into Vallon’s view rode a Byzantine general, casting his gaze around. ‘One of the mercenary captains assisted the emperor in his escape. Let him step forward.’

Vallon smiled at the officer he’d assaulted and shoved his sword back into the scabbard. ‘I think he means me.’

When Vallon approached, Alexius raised his blanched face and laughed. ‘I might have known it. It seems that you only came to my aid to tell me your judgement was vindicated.’

Vallon bowed. ‘Not so. Your tactics would have worked if the Varangians hadn’t suffered a rush of blood. I give thanks to God for sparing your life, and I pledge to continue serving in defence of the empire.’

Alexius pinned him with his disconcerting blue gaze, then allowed the surgeons to lower him back onto his cushions. He rotated one hand and closed his eyes. ‘Vallon the Frank. Make a note of that name and strike everything else from the record.’

Vallon left his squadron at its winter quarters in Hebdomon, seven miles south of Constantinople, and set off alone for the ride home. He entered the city’s triple line of defences through the Golden Gate, passing under a triumphal arch bristling with statues of emperors, sculptural reliefs and a chariot pulled by four colossal elephants. His route took him along the Mese, the wide marble-paved thoroughfare used by emperors embarking on or returning from campaigns. Snow had fallen and Vallon had the road almost to himself, the city muted and melancholy under a gloomy November sky. He jogged through empty plazas, horse and rider dwarfed by the lofty statues of dead emperors whose triumphant attitudes only made the defeat at Dyrrachium more humiliating. At the Forum of Constantine he turned left and made his way down to Prosphorion Harbour on the south side of the Golden Horn. Here he caught a ferry to the north shore, remounted his horse and rode up into the suburb of Galata.

His walled villa stood near the top of the hill. He frowned to see the courtyard door standing ajar. He pushed it open and entered, breathing a sigh of weary pleasure at being home again. For a few moments he stood absorbing the atmosphere. He’d owned the villa for four years and in all that time he’d spent only eleven months under its roof.

From a precinct behind the stable came the clatter of practice swords. Vallon led his horse over to find Aiken sparring with Wulfstan, his Viking watchman. Vallon watched, putting off the moment when he’d have to break the news to Aiken.

As always, he was struck by how little the boy resembled his father.

Aiken was slight, of medium height, with straight mousy hair and grey eyes. Two of him would comfortably have fitted into his father’s massive frame. Even allowing for the blood inheritance on his mother’s side, it wasn’t credible that Beorn had sired him, yet the Varangian had never broached the subject and in all respects treated the lad as if he were flesh of his own flesh.

Wulfstan lowered his sword. ‘No! You keep closing up. You’re not a snail; you don’t have a shell. All you’re doing is showing your opponent that you’re scared.’

‘I
am
scared. Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Listen. There’s no reason to fear being killed in battle. If you receive the death blow, the shock and pain will stop you thinking about death. And once you’re dead, you won’t be thinking about anything.’

‘False dialectic. According to Plato —’

‘Listen, lad, I might not have your book-learning, but I know one thing. A man who’s scared of death is fearful of life, and a man who’s fearful of life might as well be dead.’

Vallon cleared his throat.

Wulfstan whirled and his bruiser’s whiskered face lit up. He freed the stump of his left hand from the socket attached to the back of his shield. ‘Lord Vallon! Welcome home, sir.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ Vallon said, not taking his eyes off Aiken.

Wulfstan knew that look and what it meant. ‘Lord save us. Don’t tell me…’

Vallon handed him the reins of his horse. ‘She’s weary. Feed, water and groom her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wulfstan said in a downcast tone.

Aiken hurried over, a boyish smile lighting his face, then he registered Vallon’s expression and the smile withered.

Vallon didn’t soften the blow. ‘I’m sorry to bring you woeful news. Your father perished at Dyrrachium. He died gallantly, leading a charge against the Normans, singing his battle hymn. He didn’t suffer.’

Aiken swallowed. Something in his throat clicked.

Vallon took his hands. ‘Before the battle, your father and I spoke at length about you. He told me how proud he was of your achievements. So am I. We’ll arrange a mass to pray for his ascent into heaven. You’ll need a period of mourning and reflection, but after that it’s my wish to adopt you as my son. I know you already hold that place in my Lady Caitlin’s heart.’

A tear winked on Aiken’s lashes. ‘What a waste.’ He pulled free and stumbled away.

The villa door opened and Vallon’s daughters ran out, skidding on the slush. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’

He caught them one in each arm and swung them up. ‘Zoe! Helena! How you’ve grown. What beauties you’ve turned into.’

Over their heads he saw Caitlin hurry onto the veranda, followed by Peter, his house servant. Her lips trembled. His own mouth twitched and his heart distended. At thirty-three, she was as beautiful as the day he’d first seen her – more so, thanks to the ministrations of maids and hairdressers and seamstresses.

She held up the hem of her skirts and hurried towards him. ‘You should have sent notice of your homecoming. I would have arranged a celebration.’

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to celebrate.’

Only then did Caitlin notice Aiken leaning against the wall in the corner of the courtyard, his shoulders racking with sobs. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Beorn’s dead?’

Vallon nodded. ‘Along with most of the Varangian Guard.’ He put out a restraining hand. ‘Give him some time on his own.’

She batted aside his hand, ran to Aiken and squeezed his head to her bosom.

‘What’s wrong, Father?’

Vallon looked into the uplifted faces of his daughters. He tried to smile. ‘I brought you some presents.’

Vallon’s homecomings seldom went as joyously as he’d anticipated. Always there was distance to be bridged, a friction that took time to smooth away. Beorn’s death and its consequences made this the most strained reunion yet. Over supper, Caitlin tried to show interest in Vallon’s activities during his seven-month absence. He filled the silences with questions about domestic matters, the girls, Caitlin’s social arrangements. Aiken had retired to his room.

When the servants had cleared the dishes, Caitlin looked at the empty table. ‘What will become of him?’

‘As I told you, we’ll adopt the boy.’

‘I meant, what does life hold for him?’

‘He’ll join the military under my tutelage.’

Caitlin screwed up her napkin. ‘No!’

‘Aiken is my squire, my shield-bearer. It’s his duty.’

‘The boy isn’t a soldier. He has no aptitude for violence. Ask Wulfstan. What he does have is a gift for languages and philosophy.’

‘Caitlin, I have no choice in the matter. I swore an oath to his father.’

‘A loud-mouthed roaring idiot who got himself killed just like all those foolhardy warriors who perished at Hastings.’

‘Beorn died defending the empire.’

‘From what you told me, it sounds like he squandered his life to settle an old blood grudge.’

Vallon gritted his teeth. ‘My lady, I think you’ve settled so comfortably into the luxurious ways of Constantinople that you forget what sacrifices have been made to safeguard your lifestyle.’

Both of them stared at the table. Caitlin eventually broke the silence. ‘Surely you don’t mean to take Aiken on your next campaign.’

‘I do.’

‘But he’s only sixteen, just a boy.’

‘He’s the same age I was when I first saw military service. Don’t worry. I’ll lead him on gently.’

Caitlin stared through him, then rose and made for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

She whirled, eyes ablaze. ‘Where do you think?’

Vallon remained at the table, half articulating justifications for his decision, his discomfort worsened by the knowledge that Caitlin probably was right. Sweet anticipation of returning home had soured. Smacking the board with his fist, he picked up the flagon of wine and two beakers and went to Wulfstan’s lodgings by the gate.

‘I’m not keeping you from sleep, am I?’

‘God, no, sir.’

‘I thought we might drink to my safe return and Beorn’s voyage into the afterlife.’

The Viking swept a bench clean with his good hand. He quaffed his cup in one and leaned forward, eyes shining. ‘Tell me about the battle, sir.’

Vallon sipped his wine and his gaze wandered back to that chaotic day. ‘It was a complete mess…’

Half-drunk by the time he’d finished his account, he looked up to see Wulfstan’s gaze rapt and distant. The Viking’s nostrils flared. ‘God, I’d give anything to fight another battle.’

‘Isn’t the loss of one hand enough?’

Wulfstan looked at his stump and laughed. ‘I can still hold a sword.’

Vallon sobered. ‘Do you think Aiken will make a soldier?’

Wulfstan’s manner grew circumspect. ‘Under your tutelage, I think any lad would.’

‘The truth now.’

‘His sword-play is quite pretty.’

‘But he lacks fire and fibre.’

Wulfstan had drunk twice as much as Vallon. ‘The trouble with Aiken is that he thinks too much. Imagination is the enemy of action.’

‘That suggests I think too little.’

Wulfstan gave a tipsy chuckle. ‘Not at all. I remember the day you fought Thorfinn Wolfbreath in the forests north of Rus. Christ, what a contest that was.’ He glugged his wine. ‘At dawn before the contest, you were sitting alone at the edge of the arena and Thorfinn, who’d been pouring birch ale down his throat all night and boasting how he’d break his fast on your liver, spotted you and said, “Couldn’t you sleep?” And you replied cool as autumn dew, “Only a fool lies awake brooding over his problems. When morning comes, he’s tired out and the problems are the same as before.”’ Wulfstan thumped the table. ‘I knew then that you’d beat him.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Vallon said. He lurched to his feet. ‘I swore an oath against my better judgement. I don’t want to force Aiken down a path not of his own choosing. I’ll wait a few weeks and let him decide for himself.’

Vallon and Caitlin made up, as they always did. They shared a bed, made love with mutual pleasure, sat together during the long evenings, easy in each other’s company, occasionally breaking off from their private pursuits to exchange smiles.

Late one raw afternoon soon after the turn of the year, Vallon was working on his campaign report close to the hearth when the courtyard bell rang. Caitlin looked up from her embroidery. ‘Are we expecting visitors?’

‘No,’ Vallon said. He went to a window overlooking the courtyard and parted the shutters. Wulfstan had opened the gate and through the gap Vallon could see a group of men armed with swords.

The Viking marched towards the house, followed by an officer. ‘Soldiers of the Imperial Guard,’ Vallon told Caitlin.

Wulfstan opened the door, admitting a gust of cold air. ‘A squad of vestiaritae. Their captain wants to see you. Won’t say why.’

‘Show him in.’

Caitlin came close. ‘What can they want?’

Vallon shook his head and faced the door. Boots slapped on the floor with military precision and a young officer entered, wearing a fur mantle against the cold. He snapped a salute at Vallon and made a bow to Caitlin. ‘John Chlorus, commander of a fifty in the vestiaritae, with orders for Count Vallon the Frank.’

Vallon sketched a salute. ‘I know your face.’

‘I know yours, sir. We fought at Dyrrachium. You’re one of the few mercenaries I do recognise. Most of the others I know only from their backs.’

‘And the reason for your visit?’

‘My orders are to escort you to the Great Palace. You’d better wrap up warm. We’re travelling by boat.’

That was a two-mile journey. It would be dark before they reached the palace. ‘What’s the purpose of the summons?’

‘That I can’t tell you, Count.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Chlorus hesitated. ‘My orders are to accompany you to the palace. That’s all.’

Caitlin stepped between them. ‘Night is falling. Do you really think I’d let you carry my husband into the dark without knowing who he’s meeting?’

Chlorus had been trying to keep his eyes off her since entering.

‘Well?’ Caitlin demanded.

‘My orders were issued by the Logothete tou Dromou.’

Vallon’s eyes narrowed. The title translated as something like the ‘Auditor of the Roads’, but the Logothete’s responsibilities went much further than maintaining the empire’s highways. He supervised the Byzantine government’s postal service and diplomatic corps, monitored the activities of foreigners in Constantinople and ran an empire-wide network of spies and informers. He was in effect the emperor’s foreign minister, a personal adviser who wielded great and covert influence.

‘In that case I won’t keep the minister a moment longer than necessary. You’ll have to excuse me while I make myself presentable. My house guard will bring wine to warm you.’ Vallon cast a loaded look at the Viking hovering behind the officer, his hand on his sword, his face glowering with mistrust. ‘Wulfstan, the soldiers must be perishing. Invite them inside.’

Caitlin hurried after Vallon as he made for their sleeping chamber. She seized his elbow. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Vallon, struggling out of his gown.

Caitlin watched him dress. ‘It must have something to do with you saving the emperor’s life.’

‘Don’t speak of it. According to the official accounts, Alexius fought his way to freedom after slaying twenty Normans and riding his horse up a hundred-foot precipice.’

With mounting impatience, Caitlin watched Vallon pull on a tunic. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear that. Let me.’

He let her complete his costume and then he buckled on his sword. She stood back and appraised him. ‘Well, you won’t disgrace us. I’m sure the emperor intends to reward you.’

Vallon took her in his arms and kissed her. Their lips lingered. She stroked his neck. ‘Return soon, dear husband. I want to show how much I love you.’

‘As soon as I can,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise.’

He broke the clinch, turned and went to face his destiny with a neutral smile. ‘Shall we go?’

A caique rowed by eight men carried them down the Bosporus, their passage speeded by a cutting northerly. Vallon’s escort spoke little and only among themselves. Dreary dusk darkened to starless night. Shielded by a windbreak, Vallon watched the torches on the great sea walls sliding past to starboard. He wondered how he would return home, and then it occurred to him that this might be a one-way journey. Officers who’d distinguished themselves in battle weren’t wrenched from the fireside on a cold winter night.