The Mosaic of Shadows (41 page)

I was hardly used to refusing direct orders before the Emperor, but my sense of duty rebelled. ‘The Emperor needs me . . .’

‘He needs you where you are sent. Go.’

Though I had many misgivings, I could not disobey: I ran for the door, slipping on the marble floors in my haste. As I steadied myself on a column I looked back at the Emperor, hoping perhaps for a word to countermand my errand, to keep me where I felt most needed. He did not see me, but stood before his throne gazing out of the arched windows in silence, while the nobles around him argued loudly and openly. Only the priests seemed unaffected, continuing their liturgy even while the fate of the empire was decided on the plain before them. I could see them coming around the edge of the screen even now, bearing an icon for the Emperor to kiss. I had to admire them their devotion, their pious indifference to the mundane, even if it seemed almost sacrilege to ignore such extraordinary events. Perhaps I envied them.

The Emperor caught sight of them and sank back into his throne, ready to enact the ritual. Doubtless he should have resumed the utter impassivity which was his appointed role, but the cares of the moment had stripped away all talent for pretence and he watched with open interest. Nor could he even keep from frowning a little, as if some thought or sight had jarred in him. His face was towards me, and – fearing that he frowned at my delay – I was about to depart, when I realised that his eyes were fixed not on me, but on the approaching priests. I followed his gaze. Two of them I recognised, having been there since the morning, but the third was new: he must have come in to allow the other a rest. His knuckles were tight about the tall cross he held, and he stared on it with almost feverish devotion, tipping his head back as if he basked in the sun of heaven. The pose accentuated the angles of his sharp face, particularly the crooked line of his nose, and I saw that he must be recently come from a monastery, for the skin of his scalp was still pink where the tonsure had been shaved.

Too slowly, I recognised what I saw. Perhaps the Emperor had seen something unholy about him, or perhaps he had just been surprised by an unfamiliar face, but he could not have known who it was: that, after all, had been my task. I hurled myself across the room, staving aside any who blocked my path and screaming warnings as I went.

And the monk struck.

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There was nowhere for the Emperor to hide, for the monk had him trapped on his throne. Most men would have been stilled by terror, or thought only to squirm feebly aside, but the Emperor had the instincts of a soldier and in that instant threw himself forward. It was still too late. As the two priests looked on, speechless at this murderous apparition, the monk brought his cross down like a mace on the Emperor’s head. The pearled diadem shattered; blood spouted from the thick hair and poured off the Emperor’s neck and shoulders as he fell face-first to the floor. I expected the monk to lift his weapon for a second blow, but instead he put one hand on the golden cross and pulled it from its shaft. As it came free and clattered to the floor, I saw that it was no ordinary staff he held, but a naked spear, whose point had been hidden in the crucifix. Still no-one in the room moved, petrified by the sudden onslaught. The Emperor groaned, and tried to raise himself on his arm, but the monk kicked him in the face and lifted the spear over his head. He screamed something in an unknown tongue, untrammelled triumph wild in his eyes, as he drove the spearhead down onto the Emperor’s neck.

All this time I had been moving towards him, too quickly to think, and my frantic oblivion carried me just far enough. I charged into the monk, too late to stop his blow but soon enough to knock his aim awry. The spear sank into the Emperor’s back and he howled with anguish, while the monk tumbled to the ground under my impact. Thin fingers clawed at my face, scratching my eyes, and as I tried to fend them off the monk rolled me onto my back and sprang away. His spear stood upright in the Emperor’s back, swaying like a sapling in a storm; he pulled it free and swung it in a half-circle around him, keeping any who would approach at bay.

But there were none save me, it seemed, who would approach. Though dozens of guards and nobles crowded that room, not one of them moved. Perhaps it was from cowardice, or shock; more likely they feared to intervene on one side or another while the empire hung in the balance, but they held back, pressed together in a circle of watching faces which surrounded us like the walls of the arena. It was as if the monk and I were the two anointed champions, Hector and Ajax, and the world ceased its wars while we fought our mortal duel.

But I had no Apollo to guide my hand, nor even a sword. The monk was approaching, lifting his spear with evil purpose. Perhaps he recognised me as his pursuer that day in the icy cistern, or perhaps he had reconciled himself to death in the cause of death, but there was a calm about him as the bloodied tip of his spear followed my futile evasions. I backed away, keeping my eyes fixed always on his. ‘The thrust of a spear begins in a man’s face,’ a sergeant had once told me, and as long as I held his gaze he would struggle to beat me.

But my concentration was undone. I took another step back, and felt something jostle my arm; instinct drew my eyes around to the man I had collided with, one of the priests, and in that moment the monk lunged.

It was the priest who saved me. Not by any act or intercession, though perhaps he offered a prayer, but through the sheer depths of his fear. He saw the monk move before I did, and in his haste to duck away he brought me to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The spear rushed over my head, too fast to change its course, and as I threw out my hand to break my fall I felt an iron chain underneath me. It was the censer, dropped by the priest in his fright; I lifted it, and as the monk’s momentum carried him over me I swung it through the air with all the force I could summon. It cracked against his face in an eruption of hot oil and screams, though whether they were the priest’s, the monk’s or even my own I did not know.

I found myself on my knees, my skin burning where the liquid had splashed it. The priest was beneath me, wailing piteously, but the monk still stood and still held his spear. One half of his face was seared with a crimson welt where the censer had struck him, and his eyes were clenched with pain, but it seemed he might yet find the strength for a single, final blow.

Then his mouth opened wide and the spear fell from his hand; blood dribbled down his chin and his eyes bulged open. His thin body convulsed as his soul broke free, and his empty corpse sank to the ground.

Behind him, Sigurd looked distastefully at the short sword he held, its blade bloodied almost to the hilt. He dropped it silently onto the monk’s body, then pulled me to my feet as we ran to the Emperor. The monk’s spell was broken and there was uproar in the room, shouting and recrimination, but it seemed Alexios was almost forgotten. Was he dead? Would all he had worked for, all I had sworn to protect, be undone? Krysaphios was kneeling at his side, one hand on his blood-smeared neck, and he looked up urgently as we approached.

‘He lives,’ he said. ‘But barely. I will have the guards carry him to his physician.’

‘We will go with him.’ Sigurd made to follow the guards who had answered Krysaphios’ command, but the eunuch stopped him abruptly.

‘Not you,’ he said. ‘You are needed for greater matters. Look.’ He pointed to the window, where I could see the cataphract remnants being pressed back by the barbarian host. ‘Soon they will be at the walls, and if we do not have a force to hold the gates then our cavalry will be massacred in full view of the mob. You know what would happen then.’

The blood and battle and noise and confusion had left my mind dangerously brittle, scarce able to register the words he spoke, but his mention of gates sparked a vital memory which I dragged into my thoughts. ‘The gates,’ I mumbled.

Krysaphios regarded me like a fool. ‘The gates, yes. We must protect them.’

‘But that was their plan. The Emperor guessed it. When the monk killed him, the mob would open the gates in fury and the barbarians would pour in. Now that the monk has failed, they too have failed.’

Sigurd glanced outside. ‘It seems they do not know they have failed.’

‘Then we should prove it to them.’ The demands of the moment overpowered my daze, and pulled together my thoughts. ‘We must show the barbarian leaders, Baldwin and Godfrey and their captains, that their effort is futile, that the gates will never open except to unleash the full power of our armies.’

‘There is a simpler way,’ said Sigurd. ‘Unleash the full power of our armies now. Then they will not doubt their defeat.’

‘No! That is what the Emperor almost died to prevent. He will not thank us if we now squander that hope without a final effort at peace.’

Krysaphios and Sigurd looked at each other, and then at me, and for a moment we were a single trio of silence in the tumult of the room.

‘Very well,’ said Krysaphios. ‘But how do you propose to reach the barbarians?’

There was no question of our leaving by the palace gates with the enemy so near, and we lost precious minutes riding along the walls to the Adrianople gate. This quarter of the city had become an armed camp, and the waiting legions were arrayed in long, unblinking rows behind us – as much to keep the mob from the gatehouses as to strike at the enemy, I think, but they kept a path free for us to pass. We were seven in all: Sigurd and I, three Varangians, an interpreter we had seized from the chancellery, and the dead monk tied over my horse’s back. He slowed me considerably, for these were steeds of the imperial post whose strength was all in their speed, not cataphracts’ beasts, and I had to shout after the others not to leave me behind.

The crowds were thicker by the Adrianople gate, for there were fewer guards to restrain them, and I feared lest our exit give them the opportunity to push through. Their faces were contorted with hate and fury, while the rocks and clay vessels they threw upset our beasts and impeded our progress. If they had known what the man I carried had attempted, I did not doubt they would have torn his dead limbs apart and danced on the bones. I probably would have fared little better.

Thankfully, the gatekeeper was a man equal to his task. He left his gate closed until we were almost upon it – so close that I could barely have pulled up my horse in time – then heaved it open just wide enough to admit a single rider. Sigurd, in the lead, never hesitated, and my horse followed his true course through the gap with mere inches between my legs and the wood. There was a thud as the monk’s head caught the edge of the gate, but the rope held him in place and we were out of the city, galloping down the Adrianople road towards the right flank of the barbarian army. Though they had seemed so many from the throne-room, they were some distance from us now, in the hollow between our ridge and the shore of the Horn. They appeared to have concentrated all their might on the gates by the palace, where the walls were nearest and where, I supposed, the news of the Emperor’s death might be expected to reach them first. Their foot soldiers were at the base of the outer walls, some wielding siege rams against the gates, others trying to shore burning pieces of timber against the masonry, perhaps trying to collapse it. Their mounted knights were drawn up further back out of bowshot, waiting for a breach to be made, while archers tried to keep our defenders pinned behind the ramparts. On the slope which rose behind them, a sheaf of banners were planted amid a cluster of men on horseback.

Sigurd slowed his horse so that I came up beside him. ‘I should be sallying out of those gates at the head of my company,’ he muttered. ‘Not skulking around the enemy’s flanks.’

‘A glorious battle is what we hope to prevent,’ I reminded him. ‘And in any case, the flanks are where the enemy are always weakest.’

‘Not so weak that six men and a corpse can turn them. Look.’ Sigurd pointed his axe to our right, and a wave of apprehension coursed through me as I saw a score of the barbarian cavalry galloping towards us. Sparks flew where their horses’ hooves struck rocks, and their spears were couched low.

‘We can outpace them,’ I said, glancing towards the hill where the barbarian captains stood. ‘These beasts were bred for speed.’

‘We can outpace them,’ Sigurd agreed, ‘but we would only spur ourselves into the end of the sack. There is a company of spearmen on that hill, and it will take more than half a dozen post-horses to break their line.’

I looked back to the approaching horsemen, who were now fanning out to envelop us. Battle would be futile, for they outnumbered us four to a man: even the Varangians would succumb against those odds. Reaching under the ill-fitting mail hauberk I had hurriedly pulled on at the palace, I felt for the hem of my tunic and tore at it. A thin strip came away; I knotted it about the end of my sword and waved it desperately over my head, shouting the one Frankish word I had learned. ‘Parley! Parley!’