Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (34 page)

‘Debts,’ Wulfrun said. ‘I had not heard that.’

‘So it is said.’ The Stallion turned to leave. ‘If any of those who have recently arrived in the city pose the smallest threat to the emperor, I cannot remain silent. I will make my voice heard, in the forum, on the steps of the senate, until all know what dangers we face. Constantinople needs a strong hand if it is to survive. Not the weakness we all see around us.’

When he had watched the general, his men and his son sweep away, Wulfrun turned to Ricbert. ‘Find someone to move these remains, then meet me at the Great Palace.’

Marching east through the streets, Wulfrun knew that Victor Verinus was right about one thing: there was too much weakness in Constantinople. Everyone in the city knew that. But it was not the Varangian Guard who was to blame. Everywhere he went he heard the people lamenting the loss of the strength that had made the empire great. It was a gulf that many would have no qualms filling.

At the Great Palace, it was his intention to alert others to his increasing unease concerning the emperor’s security, but although he spoke to general after general, minister after minister, his words were wasted. Emperor Michael was like a leaf blown by the wind of whoever had his ear at the time. And most days it was that viper Nikephoritzes, who cared only that the coffers were full and nothing for the growing threats that assailed them from every side.

For a while Wulfrun wandered the corridors, gathering what information he could from the palace slaves. Once he had learned the emperor’s plans for that morning, he loitered in the shadow of an arch in the long corridor running through the heart of the vast hall. After a while, he heard voices and carefree laughter, and saw the emperor approaching. Michael was surrounded by his friends, men with too much gold and too little desire to make any mark upon the empire. Behind him came a clutch of older men, led by the severe Nikephoritzes. The commander stepped out of his archway. A splash of colour in the grey corridor, his crimson cloak demanded attention.

‘Loyal Wulfrun!’ the emperor called when he saw him. ‘I sleep easy in my bed knowing your sword is ever ready.’

The commander bowed. ‘I would have words with you about matters of some import.’

‘The emperor is too busy for the likes of you, Wulfrun,’ Nikephoritzes said, stepping between the commander and the emperor. His voice was light and his lips curled in a pretence of humour, but his eyes were cold. The finance minister would only be happy if the emperor heeded his voice alone.

‘Ah, Wulfrun, always so grim!’ Michael said as he passed. ‘I must hear the plans for our service to remember the dead of Manzikert. Why this should trouble my day, I do not know, but it shall be done. We will talk another time.’

The emperor moved on with his friends, but Nikephoritzes remained, no doubt to make sure Wulfrun did not pursue his request. Once Michael had disappeared, neither man felt the need to pretend warmth.

‘Who speaks truth to the emperor? You?’ the commander snapped.

‘There are many truths. Not all need trouble him.’

‘Our scouts in the east say the Turks are moving closer by the day. They eat the empire’s land, yet we stand by and do naught. When should this matter trouble the emperor?’

‘When the threat is clear.’

‘It is clear now. We must build our army and strike before they are at our gates.’

Nikephoritzes forced a tight smile. ‘Armies cost gold. We must be careful not to waste. You see only the stuff of swords and battles, Wulfrun, but the emperor and his government must weigh many matters, often ones that fight with each other.’

‘Armies cost, yes. But what good full coffers if they are in the hands of the Turks?’

‘Would you have us raise taxes further?’ Nikephoritzes’ smile grew wider.

Wulfrun set his jaw. The burden upon the people was already great. Many struggled to pay. The price of wheat was becoming too high for the common man, and in the markets angry voices could be heard on a daily basis.

‘New coin will be minted. It will flow into the marketplace soon enough,’ the finance minister said.

‘Coin with less gold in it?’

Nikephoritzes pursed his lips. ‘A little, perhaps.’

‘Soon it will be as light as a feather.’ Wulfrun wagged a finger at the other man. ‘Mark my words, soon there will be trouble. More trouble than we can handle, both inside our walls and without.’

‘Then you will deal with it,’ the minister said. With a nod, he strode after the emperor.

Wulfrun swept from the palace, his feeling of powerlessness turning to anger. Ricbert waited on the steps, grinning at the women as they passed. He flinched when he heard the stream of curses at his back.

‘A good morning, then,’ the smaller man said.

Wulfrun gritted his teeth, forcing himself to be calm. ‘War is coming to Constantinople, Ricbert, a greater war even than the horrors inflicted upon the English by William the Bastard and the Normans. But the emperor is blind to it. And its tendrils will reach out across the world as every power, great or small, jostles for influence and advantage. Michael is weak …’ he glanced round to make sure he could not be overheard, ‘and little more than a boy trying to grow his first beard. Weakness will lose this city, and the empire, to the Turks. And weakness will see us destroyed from within as all the vipers plot in the shadows, fighting for control. Their struggles, too, will ripple out across the world. In the face of that, what do men like you and I do, eh? Troop merrily towards doom?’

Ricbert shrugged. ‘We serve the emperor, for good or ill. That is our oath. And if we are to die, we die at his command.’

Before Wulfrun could respond, he saw a figure break away from the throng streaming along the dusty street. As the man climbed the steps of the palace, he recognized Deda.

‘I have good news. Your hopes have been fulfilled,’ the Norman said with a bow. ‘Your friend is here. Hereward has arrived in Constantinople.’

SLENDER FINGERS CLOSED
around the guard’s throat. His howls of agony became rattling gasps, his clawing fingers fluttering in the air. As she straddled the man’s chest, Meghigda felt his bucking subside to become twitches, then the faintest tremors, like raindrops on a pool. And finally he grew still. When she was sure he was dead, she let her hands go limp and her shoulders sag. Empty sockets stared up at her, the eyes lost somewhere among the filthy straw on the floor of the cell.

Pushing herself up, the queen flexed her sticky fingers. They ached from the exertion. But it had gone better than she had dared hope. The guards had been too confident, she had seen that from the outset. Thinking her weak, they did not treat her with the wariness they would have shown towards a male prisoner. They turned their backs to her when they came into her cell, squatting down to her level as they left her meagre meal in one corner. And they thought one of them at a time was enough. Once she had learned their routines, the rest was easy.

As she eased open the door, Meghigda felt a surge of defiance. She had been true to the spirit of al-Kahina. Her limbs ached and her belly growled with hunger, but the fire in her heart had never dimmed. She would not be caged, or broken, or contained. Freedom was all that mattered, to her, to her people, even unto death.

Creeping out of her cell, she plucked up the stubby candle the guard had left on the floor in its pewter holder. The light shimmered across crumbling walls slick with moisture.

Ragener would be first, she decided. Then Victor Verinus. Men without honour, both of them. They lived their lives in the dark, yet could not see what that cost them. And then she would return to her people and fight the war that she had been born to fight. Her own life meant nothing. Meghigda, the true Meghigda, had died the day her parents had been taken. Comfort, peace, aye, and love, all of that would be for ever denied her. For a while she had grown weak, thought there might be a chance of something else, but now she knew better.

She crept into the long, dank passage. The dark maws of other tunnels loomed up on either side. At each one, she paused, listening, but there was only silence. In some of them, she glimpsed spears, armour, axes; in others large stone urns. A store of secrets. Few knew of the existence of these catacombs, she guessed, and that made them perfect for Victor Verinus.

As she crept on, she began to hear strange, distorted echoes ahead. She sensed a vast space away in the dark, and water, lapping, booming, dripping. The air grew chill. The passage came to a ragged break in a wall. Rubble was strewn all around. Stepping through it, she found herself on the edge of an enormous vault filled with water. Stone columns rose up into a gulf of darkness. Her tiny candle barely penetrated a spear’s length into the gloom.

Glancing around, she saw she stood on a stone step reaching to the water’s edge. A flat-bottomed boat had been moored to a post – the guard’s, she guessed – and that seemed to be the only way out.

But as she reached for the rope she glimpsed another light far off in the abyss, brighter than her candle. A lantern. It was sweeping towards her, no doubt on the prow of another boat. The water shimmered in front of it.

Her fingers hovered over the mooring post, but she knew she would not be able to escape without being seen. Silently cursing her misfortune, she wetted the tips of her fingers, extinguished the candle and crept back into the catacombs.

If only she had Salih’s silver knife to defend herself. She could kill whoever was approaching while their back was turned, and then make her escape. Meghigda set her jaw. There was no point in complaining. Her blood-caked nails would have to suffice.

The dark swam around her. Feeling her way along the wall, she found one of the side passages and crawled along it. Her breath was tight in her chest. Her elbow clipped something – a spear? – and it clattered to the floor. The echoes rang out.

Meghigda’s heart thundered. She stiffened, listening. In the distance, she heard a splash, a dull scraping. She imagined the boat bumping against the side, the passenger climbing out, tying it to a post. Could they have heard over the echoes of the water?

Pressing her hand over her mouth, she waited. Footsteps drew closer. Heavy ones. A big man. Her breath burning in her throat, the queen peered back along the way she had crawled. A soft glow lit the wall of the main passage, growing brighter. Meghigda pressed herself back against the stone, hoping the illumination would not reach into her hiding place. The lantern swung into view, the glare so bright in the gloom that she could not look at it.

Once the light had passed, she waited only a moment and then crawled back, taking care not to disturb any other obstacles. Her time was short, she knew. If she tried to get away on one of the boats, she would be caught. If she hid, she would be caught once the dead guard and the empty cell had been discovered. Her only hope was to attack from behind and pray that surprise would be enough of an advantage.

At the passage junction, she peeped around the edge. The light was not moving. The intruder had not ventured all the way to the cell. Perhaps he searched for something in one of the stores, she thought. Here was her chance. Like a wolf, she loped along the passage towards the lantern.

Her feet made not a sound on the stones. Keeping low, she crooked her fingers into claws, making ready. She strained to hear, but she could have been alone in all the world.

Meghigda focused all her attention on that light, waiting, perhaps, for a shadow to cross in front of it. And so she sensed movement beside her too late. A low growl, the pounding of feet, a looming silhouette hurtling from one of the side passages.

The fist smashed against her cheek before she even had time to turn. Her head slammed against the wall, and her wits spun away.

Through her daze, she heard only animal noises, of pleasure or anger she could not be sure. Her captor cuffed her again for good measure, snarled a rough hand in her dress and dragged her along the passage back towards the cell. Two more blows hammered into her. She felt hands lift her effortlessly and toss her back into the cell. When the door slammed shut, she felt a momentary pang of despair – to be so close and to have freedom snatched away.

Once he had retrieved the lantern, her captor pressed his face against the bars. In the grotesque shadows cast by the lantern, Victor Verinus looked more beast than man. Meghigda stared into that face and felt a depth of hatred she had never before experienced. Yet she kept calm. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how much she cared.

‘You think yourself a warrior, woman,’ he said, glancing down at the body of the guard. ‘Very well. I shall treat you as one. Let us see how you like that.’

Meghigda held his gaze. She imagined tearing out his eyes, pressing her thumbs into his windpipe.

He seemed to sense her thoughts, for he nodded. ‘Warriors die by the sword. Sooner or later. I have seen enough battles to know that none slip off into an easy death.’

‘You think I care?’ She raised her chin in defiance.

‘No. I think you do not. You have more fire than most men, I will give you that. But it will do you little good. Your time is almost done.’

Meghigda could not understand why this man had not yet killed her. He had wanted vengeance for the death of his son, but that now seemed the furthest thing from his mind. ‘I have seen what happens to men like you,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘I would not wish it on a dog. Whichever god you worship, none of them can abide such cruelty. They will strike you down soon enough.’

‘“Men like you”,’ he repeated with a humourless laugh.

‘Men without honour. Men who lust for power above all else.’

‘Perhaps,’ he replied, caring nothing for her insult. ‘Or they seize empires. And crush the weak before them. And make what was once strong and feared strong and feared again. Either way, you will not live to see it.’ Victor stepped away from the bars. Meghigda thought how confident he seemed. Whatever he planned, he was sure it was in his grasp. ‘You will do well to stand when the rats come feasting on your friend,’ he added, nodding towards the dead guard. ‘Once the frenzy is upon them, any meat is prey, warm or cold.’