The raiders raced on, blind to all danger, thirsty to breach the last barrier that held back the fury of ten thousand killers from the city. The fate of the world rested on their shoulders. But the two Northmen flew among them, slaying left and right. Above them the walls of the gatehouse towered, sheer and pitiless, boxing them in while boiling water, flaming arrows, rocks, bricks and burning pitch rained on them in a cataract of death. The screams were deafening, from men dying or fearing death. One man swung his arms blindly, his torso engulfed in a furnace of flames. Another was bludgeoned to the ground as a rock the size of a fist crumpled his helmet. There was a crash a few yards in front, a great hiss of steam, Erlan’s face smarted with flecks of scalding water and a boiling mist billowed past like a ghost. An Arab dropped his spear and clutched at his face, turning blindly. Erlan sank the length of Wrathling into his guts, then tore the blade free in a burst of blood and foul liquid.
He screamed then, a long loud bellowing cry, feeling a killing rage burn cold inside him.
‘Makes you feel sort of homesick, don’t it, lad?’ Einar yelled, laughing like a man who’d lost his reason. And together, they surged on into the frenzied flood.
Below him, the fighting was descending into savagery. Katāros couldn’t imagine any man coming out of that deadly tempest alive. Yet still some few Arabs ran on, and fewer still Byzantines ran amongst them, jackals among lions.
More Byzantine troops were spilling out of a postern gate further north into the gap between the walls. Katāros swore under his breath, then swore again when he saw another postern to the south disgorging yet more troops on the raiders’ southern flank.
Time was running out.
Prince Maslama’s assault on the outer gate had intensified. Flaming missiles landed with ever-increasing accuracy on the outer gatehouses, the clay pots shattering in showers of flesh-melting terror. Despite the carnage on the walkways, Byzantine reinforcements were still bravely throwing themselves into the skirmish. Katāros felt his pulse racing under his pale skin. Such mulish obduracy would all be for nothing once the caliph’s host was released into the gap between the walls.
The rest of the emperor’s retinue were all pressed up against the stone rampart, craning their necks to see. The Mujahideen were at the outer gate now, cutting down the first of the defenders on the inside. They had reached their objective. Now they just had to take it. Meanwhile, the defenders on the inner wall had their missiles trained on the killing ground between the walls now, felling Arab and Byzantine alike in their desperation to thwart the raiders. Katāros saw a man in a white tunic laying about him with a long sword. And next to him, another with a long-headed axe. Not a conventional Byzantine weapon. The first man was wounded, and limping. . . yet he was dealing death to each spearman he hunted down with lethal precision.
Recognition broke suddenly in the eunuch’s mind like a beam of light: Katāros knew that man.
He knew him. And damned him to hell.
Erlan was too late.
There were still twenty Arabs between him and the gate. His shield was flapping like a broken wing. He flung it away and snatched a javelin from the gore-slick roadway as a black-helmed swordsman turned to meet him. Beyond him was another Arab, a huge black-clad beast with an enormous axe, hacking great shivers of wood out of the gate. Erlan knew he’d have it open soon but the swordsman blocked his way. Their blades rang, his bones jarred to the marrow, the Arab’s eyes flared, curved steel whipped across his thigh. Erlan screamed in pain, spraying spittle in his enemy’s face, feeling the strength leak from his limb as he fell to his knee. The Arab slashed down his blade, expecting to finish him, but Erlan threw himself forward, driving Wrathling’s pommel into the man’s groin. The Arab buckled, the javelin slid through Erlan’s fingers, he jabbed upwards, and the point went through the man’s throat like a street vendor’s skewer. The man choked, coughed blood into Erlan’s face, blinding him, then fell to the ground. For a second Erlan couldn’t see.
‘Get up, get up, you young lout!’ yelled Einar’s voice. ‘We ain’t done yet.’ Erlan felt a powerful hand grab the scruff of his tunic and haul him to his feet. He palmed the worst of the blood from his eyes and snatched his new long-knife from its sheath at his back. He looked up. To his horror, the axeman and his comrades were throwing down the splintered remains of the bars that locked the gate in place. The last of them had hardly touched the ground when the doors flung wide and a torrent of men burst through the gap like the breaking of a tidal wave.
Erlan had time only to seize Einar’s shoulder and dive out of the way, dragging the fat man with him. A dozen Arabs were through – then fifty, sixty, a hundred men. His head and shoulders smashed against the stone wall behind the gate, knocking the wind out of him. From the ground, he could see only the door and the racing figures, hear the yells of triumph, taste the sour nausea of disaster and defeat in his throat. Everything was a blur, everything shifting, everything moving. Everything except the door.
It was a mad hope. Mad and forlorn. His head was ringing. But all he could think was: close the gate.
There it was. Close the gate.
He stood, put his shoulder to it and pushed. Pushed against the ocean but the ocean gave not an inch. The weight of men was too heavy. Then, suddenly, there was another man beside him, heavyset, and swearing like a blacksmith in a language he knew well.
‘Heave,’ Erlan rasped through gritted teeth.
‘What d’you think I’m doing?’ snarled Einar, laying his considerable weight against the timber. Wild, wordless prayers shrieked in Erlan’s head. There was a sudden crash outside the gates like a thousand cymbals, a blast of heat through the door. Oil seeped hot and viscous around his boots. There was a strange, weightless lull in the flood, a silent instant which in the next heartbeat was answered with animal screaming. Erlan smelled burning flesh.
‘Now!’ yelled Einar and they shoved again with all the strength left in them. This time the great bulk of oak swung on its hinges until it was almost in place. And thanks to the Christ-God or the Virgin or to pure blind chance, there were defenders on the other door, too. Another Byzantine fell in beside them, then another, until they had the weight of half a dozen men behind them.
Through the wooden planks came Arabic war-cries and savage screaming and the hack of steel against oak, but the pendulum had swung to the defenders now. Spearheads struck like vipers between the closing doors, trying to lever it open. Einar fell back and heaved his axe at the gap, howling with fury, splintering spear-shafts like dry kindling. Any Arab close enough to get a hand through the gap soon regretted it until at last the great doors crashed back on their stone frame.
‘Seal them now!’ someone screamed. A thick beam fell across the brackets, and then another.
Erlan sagged against the door and slipped slowly down it into the dust and the blood and the oil that puddled at his feet, deaf now to the frustrated blows ringing against the heavy timber. He watched, exhausted, through hooded eyes at the Arabs who had forced their way through the gate. Every one of them was a hero, he thought. Every one of them deserved a saga-song.
And he watched as the Byzantines butchered them like swine.
PART THREE
BLOOD
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The first snows fell in the tenth month. And the snow continued to fall.
It was the talk of every square, every atrium, every bathhouse, from the lowest taverns to the loftiest mansions: snow that snapped at the toes, that clogged the gutters, that piled up in mountains of filthy slush along the Mese, that bowed the cedar branches in the imperial gardens. The city had never seen such a thing.
‘It is the Lord’s doing,’ the citizens said.
What else could it be? The thing was clear. The city was God-favoured. He had spared it from disaster and now He was making His enemies suffer.
Whenever a merchant stamped his feet and cursed the cold, or a tavern-keeper’s wife complained at the draughty tiles on her roof,
it was answered with the same knowing chuckle. ‘Aye – but it’s worse for them.’
Even in the palace, where the hearth fires had burned without respite for more than fifty days now, the furs on the imperial couch and the heavy silk curtains could not keep out the seeping cold. A harsh winter, bitter as death.
And yet, thought Emperor Leo, third of his name, it’s worse for them. It was hard not to see the work of some unseen hand in all this, although Leo was not a man who would lightly attribute some trifling good fortune to Divine intervention. But when the news came in the autumn that his rival, the Caliph Sulayman, had died suddenly. . . even Leo had to admit that something greater than all of them was moving in his favour.
Yet still, he must be certain. The fate of the city remained in the balance.
‘They say the Arabs are eating their own horses.’ Arbasdos smiled lazily through the steam rising off his hot cinnamon-spiced wine.
‘They’ll say worse than that before this winter is done,’ returned Leo.
‘It’ll be thanks to you if they do.’
‘Maybe. Or to Maslama’s credulity. Poor fool.’ Leo took an impatient pull on his wine. ‘Still, I can hardly believe it. He can’t be that stupid, can he? We can’t be that lucky.’
‘Why not? You play the game well.’
‘And yet I don’t know my next move.’ Leo rose from his couch in frustration, feeling restless.
‘Wait till you do, then,’ said his friend in a languid voice. ‘And meanwhile have another drink.’ Arbasdos refilled Leo’s cup.
‘I’ve never waited. I act.’
Arbasdos chuckled and raised his cup to his emperor. ‘And there’s the difference between a strategos and a basíleus, my friend.’
‘What would you do?’
‘I just told you—’
‘No. I mean if you were him.’
His old ally sighed. ‘Supplies are low. Morale is low. My lord and brother just died. The winter’s hard.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Go home, perhaps.’
‘And lose face for ever? No. He won’t do that. Not yet. Maybe that’s why he still treats with me. He longs to believe there’s a chance I could still offer him what he wants.’
‘Like any whore promised marriage,’ Arbasdos sniggered. ‘One day. . .’
‘Hmm.’ Leo moved to the window and gazed out over the grey waters of the Bosporus, almost hidden by the flurrying snow. ‘Do you believe that the Virgin watches over this city?’
‘What? Has that old vulture Germanus been getting to you again? Taking credit for the Arabs’ failure to break through.’
Leo snorted. He didn’t need the patriarch to put the question in his mind; it lurked there of its own accord, haunting his thoughts. ‘Maslama must be planning something. He must. He can’t just sit there and let his army rot away until spring comes.’
‘They say the Bulgars have been raiding his lines from the north.’ Arbasdos chuckled. ‘Perhaps Khan Tervel’s men will do the job for us. I heard the only thing an Arab fears more than winter is a Bulgar night-raid.’
‘The Bulgars are wild. And cannot be trusted.’ Leo suddenly spun around. ‘I want you to find out what Maslama intends.’
‘Me?’
‘In the east, you had a spy who served us well. Do you have her with you here, in the city?’
Arbasdos’s face clouded for a second. ‘I think I could find her—’
‘Good. Make a plan. See it accomplished. No delay.’
When a player could not see his opponent’s next move, there was only one thing to do.
Cheat.
‘Your wounds heal fast.’ Lilla’s finger traced the weal of pink flesh across Erlan’s thigh, her touch light as gossamer.
‘I have a good healer.’ He smiled, catching her wrist just before her fingertip could tease him in earnest. He pulled her hand to his face and kissed her palm.
She closed her fingers on the invisible trace of his lips. ‘You’re lucky. Men fight with steel. They bleed. They die or else they live. The Norns decide. The wounds of the heart don’t heal so easily.’
‘You think I carry none of those?’
‘I know you do.’ Lilla pulled herself up the bed and rolled onto her back next to him. ‘Although you tell me nothing of them.’
‘Why should I burden you with them? Aren’t they mine to bear?’
‘Why, indeed?’ she said with a scoff, turning away from him.
‘Hey.’ He caught her shoulder. ‘You’re safe here. We’re both safe. We have each other.’
‘Aye, we’re safe. For now. But what are we doing here, Erlan? And how long must we be here, trapped like salmon in a flood-pool?’
‘The siege could be months more. Years even. We have to be patient.’
‘I don’t want to be patient,’ she snapped. ‘Every day we are here is another day that Thrand drives his claws deeper into my father’s kingdom. He’s a traitor. . . A monster,’ she murmured in an afterthought.
Erlan’s eyes narrowed, watching the lines around her mouth crease. These were new. They lent her face a hardness not there before. ‘What did he do to you?’
Her eyes snapped up at his. ‘It’s not what he did. It’s what he will do. He’s going to run the land to ruin.’
‘So let him,’ said Erlan. ‘Is it so bad to stay here? What if we made a home here? The emperor plainly favours us. If only the Arab threat could be broken. . . we could make a life here.’
‘What are you saying? No! You can’t think like that. Fine – I grant you, this is a place with much good to teach, much we might carry back with us. But don’t ask me to give up my homeland. I gave Ringast my word.’
‘Lilla.’ He turned her chin to him and looked deep into the swirling dark of her eyes. ‘Is it your word you think of – or your revenge?’
She pushed away his hand. ‘You care nothing for either.’
‘My love –’ he shook his head and spoke softly – ‘vengeance is a dangerous dream. It repays the best of you with nothing but ashes and dust. Believe me, I know.’
‘I don’t dream of vengeance. I dream of justice. Even if it can only be found in the winds of war.’
‘You once told me wars were the petty grievances of petty men. Release war and you release chaos. You don’t know where it will lead. Or what else you will lose.’
‘I know I’ve lost everything already.’ She gazed up into his eyes. ‘Everything except you. I won you back.’
‘Aye. You did.’ He expelled a gentle sigh. ‘Listen to me, Lilla – I only want to protect you. You’re too precious to lose a second time.’ He pulled her closer to him, his hand slipping down her spine and over the smooth fullness of her hip. But she wouldn’t let it go.
‘When the siege is lifted,’ she murmured into his chest, ‘then we’ll take all we can from here.’
‘All?’ He scoffed. ‘You mean that devil’s fire.’
‘I mean anything that will serve us.’
‘And if the siege can’t be lifted—’
‘Make it so. And soon.’
‘What?’ He let out a bark of laughter. ‘What the Hel can I do?’
‘Whatever you can to bring the siege to an end. To break it. We need to leave this place, my love. It isn’t where we belong.’ When he didn’t answer, she pulled away from him and flung her thigh astride him, pinning his shoulders to the bed. ‘Promise me you’ll do all you can.’
‘Haven’t I made you enough promises?’ he murmured.
‘Promise me,’ she smiled, her voice a soft burr. She leaned back, her body arching above him, the half-lit orbs of her breasts shining like bronze in the firelight.
‘You know I’ll do anything for you,’ he said, his throat dry with desire. She leaned down and kissed him. He let her, savouring the soft press of her lips, inhaling her downy scent and the swirls of air escaping her nostrils, while the tip of her tongue flickered against his. And all the while burying the disquiet in his heart.
The gloom hid his frown. Because he was no
closer to solving the riddle that had carried him into this cauldron of war. And he knew he could not leave it until he had.
Until he was free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘You saw Maslama himself?’ asked Leo.
‘I did, Majesty.’ The Jewess stood before the emperor with the same haughty half-grin she had worn when the patriarch had fumed at her around Arbasdos’s table.
‘You did well, daughter of Abraham.’
‘I did.’
Katāros could not help but admire her. Her appearance was immaculate. There was not a fold out of place to suggest where she had been. She was dressed in black silk and cloaked in black wool, with baggy pantaloons of the style worn by merchants in the sweltering ports of southern Persia. Her long black hair was arranged in two demure braids that fell down her back. She must have an iron constitution to endure the cold in nothing more. But her clothes had served her purpose.
‘Tell me then. What did you learn?’
Lucia’s lips pursed for a brief moment, before she started speaking quickly and softly. ‘I saw nothing so pathetic as Maslama’s army, Majesty. Human waste everywhere. Dead carcasses of animals stripped to the bone. Even dead bodies, left to rot with the ground too hard to dig, or else waiting for the furnace—’
‘So they suffer privation,’ interrupted Leo, impatient, ‘yes, yes. But what of his plans?’
Lucia’s eyes flicked to Katāros. There was no one else in the room. The emperor had insisted on absolute privacy for this first report, not even his precious guards were present. The chamberlain calmly stepped forward and furnished the Jewess with a cup of warm Thracian red. She accepted, arching a slender eyebrow in thanks. ‘The new Caliph Umar has promised Maslama another fleet, bringing grain from Alexandria. And reinforcements from Syria.’
‘When, girl, when?’
‘They expect them in the spring.’
‘Nothing more specific?’
‘They know nothing more. Though they pray it is early spring,’ she added.
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