A Burning Sea

by Theodore Brun

  ‘Lie back,’ he said, and slid off the couch onto his knees. Eyes wide, Nikolaos did as he was bid, watching as the eunuch gently uncovered him. Moments later he was gasping, staring down at the swaying curtain of black hair, clutching at the cheap cushions on his couch. Katāros listened to his sighs, listened to the fire-maker surrendering his inhibitions, let him have a few lingering moments of pleasure. Enough to whet his appetite. But when he felt his thighs tense and shake, he pulled back.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Nikolaos whispered, voice trembling.

  ‘Your wife,’ Katāros murmured.

  ‘She won’t disturb us.’

  ‘I want more than this. There will be noise. I don’t want you to hold back.’ And before he could make any answer, Katāros covered him. ‘There’s an inn I know in the coppersmiths quarter. It’s on Bithynia Street, under the sign of the lion.’

  ‘I know Bithynia Street,’ said Nikolaos breathlessly.

  ‘The rooms are clean. The owner is discreet. We will have all night. Can you slip away?’

  ‘My wife will soon be asleep. She sleeps like the dead.’

  ‘Two hours then?’

  ‘One hour.’

  Katāros flashed a smile. ‘So eager.’

  It was arranged, and when they parted Nikolaos was too flustered to notice Katāros conceal the dark blue stole under his cloak.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘The Bulgars, hey?’ said Einar. ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘Not enough, yet.’ Erlan circled the base of his earthenware cup on the rough wood of the tavern table. The place was quiet, the few other drinkers keeping to their own business, and certainly not minded to interrupt the two dangerous-looking men in the corner conversing in a foreign tongue.

  Einar poured out the last few drops from their wine-jug and scowled. ‘Bah. . .! Hey, Damianus! Another of these when you can.’

  The tavern owner nodded obligingly and started digging behind his counter. He and Einar had become firm allies over the winter in the karl’s epic struggle to keep his belly full of wine. The tavern was a small, respectable place in the heart of the leather-makers’ quarter, a little north of the Hippodrome. Not far from where Einar had taken up residence with a certain actress, who was either famous about the city or notorious, depending on one’s view of the stage.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Erlan, ‘all you need to know is that we’ll be getting out of the city for a while. And that we leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Hel, I’m ready to leave now if you want.’ Damianus arrived with the wine and Einar eagerly held out his cup for a refill. ‘Aha! To the top, to the top. That’s it! Good man.’ He took a long draught.

  ‘Why so keen to get out?’

  ‘Because I’ve come to the view that time away from Orlana would do me good.’

  ‘I thought you liked her.’

  ‘I do. . . or rather did. No, do.’ He looked confused. ‘Damn it, sometimes I feel like I’ve caught a wolf by the tail. She’s bloody exhausting. And not in a good way.’

  Erlan chuckled.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. She’s exhausting in a good way, too. The feats she performs. . .’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘Sometimes, afterwards, all a fellow can do is lean back and clap.’

  ‘Sounds awful. You poor man.’

  ‘No – it’s the rest of it, boy! I mean, I’ve known moody women, believe me. But the worst of them couldn’t hold a flame to Orlana. I swear I don’t know how she has a cup or a plate left in the place – she spends half the day smashing stuff up.’

  ‘It’s the heat down here. Makes them fiery.’

  ‘Fiery? Gods, you can say that again! And she’s only worse since some official had the bright idea to ban the racing while the siege continues, and that means the entertainment that goes with it. That’s her main source of income, she says – and she rages at the eparch for a thief, and drinks and weeps and rages some more. . . I tell you, she’ll make me an old man before my time!’

  Erlan laughed. ‘I guess you didn’t come to Byzantium for a new wife.’

  ‘No, I did not. But I’ve as good as found one. And the truth is, I don’t know what to do with her.’ The fat man growled some more like a sulky bear. ‘Anyhow, what about you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you got what you came for. Serving the emperor, hey?’

  ‘Mmm.’ The laughter dried in Erlan’s throat, his grin turned a little sour. ‘I suppose I did.’ He tried not to think how he had clung to that empty hope. Gods, what had he expected anyway? Only a fool would rely on the word of a half-crazed holy man, but he had clung to it like a drowning man to timber. If he ever told Einar that he had crossed half the world on the strength of it. . . that they all had. And what had come of it? The twins were dead. And he was still under the Watcher’s curse.

  He looked across the table at his friend. Even sour and irritable, Einar couldn’t suppress the humour dancing in his eyes. He was only ever a dry remark away from laughter. And yet Erlan feared for him, feared for all of them. Feared for Lilla most of all.

  ‘So you’re coming then,’ he said.

  ‘Aye. I’ll come. Maybe that crazy wench will learn to appreciate me while I’m gone. Just tell me what we have to do.’

  Katāros wiped his dagger clean on the inside of his cloak. His lip curled at the irony of it. The evidence was gone in a moment. But one couldn’t wipe away the memory so easily, he thought. The stink of it lingered too.

  Then again, the fire-maker’s innards were no worse than the usual stench in this quarter of the city, with its open gutters, liquid sewage running everywhere, midden heaps on street corners and puddles of vomit outside every tavern.

  The long hours with Nikolaos had paid off. Eventually. But the lampros had been stubborn. Brave, even. Katāros had been forced to use all his powers of invention to coax the necessary information from him. But he was satisfied that he had extracted everything the man had to tell.

  Materials, composition, conditions of preparation, quantities, proportions, viscosity. . . process, all was process. And that was merely to make the substance. The real trick, it became clear, was in the mechanics of the fire-syphon. Pump, nozzle, ignition temperature, pipework. But all the details were safely recorded now on the long scroll of parchment in the leather cylinder in his hand. Written in Greek and also in Arabic for good measure. Everything that Maslama and Abdal-Battal needed to tip the scales of providence in their favour.

  ‘I should be staying,’ said the Jewess, who had joined him halfway through the night’s grisly business. The work proved too much for her at times but she had swallowed her qualms and stayed the course. ‘My task here is still not complete.’

  ‘You’ll never get another chance like the one you blundered,’ replied the eunuch, glad of the chance to goad her. ‘But don’t be disheartened. Your part in this work tonight will more than make up for your failure. I expect by the time this is over, they’ll be writing your name in gold on the walls of Damascus.’

  Lucia scowled softly. ‘I care nothing for acclaim. I only want to see the city fall. Along with that son of a poxed whore, Arbasdos.’

  ‘Your modesty does you credit,’ Katāros smiled. ‘As does your hatred. Now – you’re sure of the meeting place?’ He passed her the leather cylinder.

  ‘At the foot of the sea wall between the Boukoleon and Julian harbours.’ She slipped the leather strap over her head. She was dressed entirely in black, a headscarf obscuring her face. All but her eyes, which shone out like purple sapphires. ‘He’ll be waiting an arrow’s flight offshore.’

  Katāros checked the cylinder on her back, smearing soft wax around the seal. The container needed to be watertight. ‘And the ferryman. . . you trust him?’

  ‘He thinks I’m meeting a lover across the straits. He knows nothing but the gold I’ll pay him.’

  ‘Good.’ Katāros glanced down at Nikolaos’s body. The night had not unfolded quite as the fire-maker had wished. His limbs were
twisted awkwardly under him and a coil of intestine glistened wetly in his lap. ‘Very good. God go with you then,’ he murmured. Lucia lingered for a heartbeat, nodded, and then she was away into shadow. ‘Aye,’ the eunuch whispered after her. ‘And the Devil too.’

  The Jewess gone, he took out the silk stole and soaked half of it in blood, then he stuffed a corner into the fire-maker’s crooked fingers. ‘Pieces, pieces,’ he chuckled to himself. The game was at last moving his way.

  Next moment he was leaving the gloom-wreathed cul-de-sac behind him, turning the corner by a grubby little bakery and hurrying down the lane. The gutter next to the pathway was deep there, clogged with foul-smelling ordure. He stopped for a moment and listened. The lane was deserted. Here was as good as any spot. He pulled the dagger from his belt and let it fall. It sank down into the filth and soon disappeared.

  He cast a final glance up at the faint ribbon of sky visible between the close-set houses. Somehow a silver moonbeam had burrowed its way down into the shadows. It fell across his face for a second.

  And then he was gone. . .

  ‘So, my young hero – until the morrow.’ Einar clapped Erlan on the shoulder as they stumbled out of the tavern onto the street.

  ‘Don’t be late, fat man. Oh, and Einar – a bit of peace-making wouldn’t go amiss. It may be a while before you see your woman again.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lad.’ Einar’s face beamed in a lecherous grin. ‘I’ll be sure to peace the Hel out of her before the night’s much older.’

  Erlan chuckled and was about to turn away when he noticed someone moving fast and furtively under the shadow of the portico on the other side of the street. A silhouette he would now recognize anywhere.

  ‘Hey,’ he said sharply under his breath. Einar was already heading for home, but his head turned, then tilted in a question. Erlan ghosted a finger across his lips. The light fog of the wine in his head cleared in an instant, the scent of action blowing it away like a gust of wind.

  His eye was on the figure – Lucia. The movement the same, even the dress. So here was his second chance. She crossed the street a little further down the road, heading downhill towards the sea.

  ‘What is it?’ hissed Einar.

  ‘The assassin.’

  ‘What? How do you—?’

  ‘I know,’ he said firmly. ‘Follow me on the other side of the street. And keep out of sight.’ The Fat-Belly might have sunk enough wine to render most men unconscious for a night and a day – but it seemed to make little difference to him. He grasped the point admirably and slunk across to the opposite colonnade.

  Lucia’s shadow flitted onwards, not running, but moving fast. Erlan lurched after her, gripping the buckles of his sword and long-knife to keep them from jangling. About halfway down the hill, she turned left, this time heading straight for the dark shadow of the Hippodrome.

  Not this damn place again, thought Erlan, checking to see that the fat man was with him. It took him a few seconds to identity the bulky shadow moving through the gloom with surprising stealth.

  They were holding the distance, more or less. Sooner or later Lucia would run slap into the gates of the great stadium. For a second he wondered whether she was on her way to break into the palace again but when she reached the wall she turned right, and flew along it. He waited at the end of the portico. He could see Einar waiting too. There was a sudden tramping of hobnailed boots further up the hill behind them. A torchlight passed across the end of the road and under it a patrol of nightwatchmen.

  He glanced ahead. Lucia’s silhouette froze, then backed against the wall. It was a dark night – the streaks of moonlight trying to break through were mostly blotted out by the low cloud hanging overhead.

  He watched the patch of shadow she had melted into, waiting for her next move, staring at it for so long he thought perhaps he had missed her moving on. He was about to break from the portico when a black shape detached itself from the murk and set off again.

  Perhaps she wasn’t so oblivious to them after all. Her pace quickened. The two Northmen darted across to the shelter of the huge wall.

  ‘Cunning little minx, ain’t she?’ hissed Einar.

  They reached the end of the Hippodrome, leaving behind the massive south gate and heading for the public gardens and open grounds of the stadium beyond. ‘Keep up, lad,’ said Einar. ‘She’s slipping away from us.’

  ‘I’m trying to, for Frigg’s sake.’ Erlan’s right hip was still stiff and bruised from the fall, let alone the older wound that always held him back.

  ‘We’re going to have to run, lad.’

  ‘You go ahead. I think she’s heading for the wall.’

  ‘Right you are. Pull your finger out your arse, hey?’

  Truth be told, Einar hadn’t had this much fun in a while, and with a belly full of drink, he could’ve run a mile and hardly drawn breath.

  There, you see – he thought to himself – all that riding must have done me some good after all. Sweet Orlana, bless her mad little head, she’d put him in fine fettle.

  He dodged from tree to tree to keep from being seen, though it was proving harder to keep the fugitive shadow in sight. But he was determined not to lose her. They were soon passing beyond the gardens and weaving through a small district with scattered houses. He guessed from the size of them this must be a precinct of the wealthier patricians and senators, but she hurried on straight through it towards a quiet section of the sea wall.

  To the right, there was a stone tower topped with a dim flare. His quarry went left, heading for a lonely staircase leading up to a deserted battlement.

  He watched the shadow bound nimbly up the steps to the walkway. If she was going over the top, he was damned if he was going to follow her, whatever that pup Erlan said. She had stopped at the top and was looking out to sea. He eased up and watched from a distance. She started unwinding something from her waist. A rope, he realized, and swore. He would miss her if he didn’t hurry and all this chasing around would be for nothing.

  He could hear Erlan behind, lumbering along like some bull lost in the forest. Blast the boy, he thought, the woman would have to be deaf as the dead not to hear him. He shuffled forward, pressing himself to the wall but moving up the steps as fast as he dared. As his head drew level with the walkway, he saw the woman was crouched low, tying off her rope around one of the battlements.

  It was a calculated risk. But he was tired of sneaking around.

  ‘Nice night for a walk, hey?’ His hand was on the haft of the seax at his back. The assassin’s head snapped up, her eyes burning bright under her cowl. She said nothing.

  ‘Now why do I have the feeling that you’re up to no good?’ he said, slowly drawing the blade from its sheath.

  ‘Come another step closer and you die, whoever you are.’

  ‘A friend of mine tells me you’re a naughty girl.’

  ‘I mean it. This is no business of yours. I don’t want to kill you.’

  Einar reckoned she must have a knife in her hand though he couldn’t see it. He presented a bulky target, certainly, but many before her had underestimated how light he was on his feet. He moved towards her. Her hand whipped back, there was a flash of steel, Einar pushed hard with his right foot and pivoted on the ball of his left. Nicely done, he congratulated himself, as the blade lanced past, nicking his ear. Half an eye-blink later and he would have had four inches of steel through his eyeball.

  Until then he hadn’t wanted to hurt this nimble little imp, but he took that knife badly. He ran at her and as he did she drew something far more deadly. It was a short, curved blade, longer than his seax, and doubtless sharp as Freyja’s tongue. He was almost close enough to grab her throat when she brought it down like a strike of lightning. With no shield and his side exposed, all he could do was step in and bash the blade aside, hoping brute force would prevail. Lucky for him, he rarely took off the leather grieves on his forearms, not even for drinking. His raised arm altered the angle and the edge scrape
d down the leather and skinned the rest of his forearm, scalding it with heat like a smith’s brand. Einar wasn’t in the habit of roughing up small women when he was half-drunk, but before he knew it her foot was planted deep in his guts. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and doubled over, fearing the next thing he’d feel would be the point of that evil blade through his neck. She must have had the same idea – but he lashed out with his left fist, connecting by pure luck with her hilt.

  It took her by surprise, smashing the blade from her grip and sending it skittering over the edge. There was a shout from below. Erlan was there under the wall.

  About bloody time, too.

  Einar seized her by the throat and squeezed. ‘Are we done yet?’ he growled. She was a delicate creature for all her cunning. ‘Damn it, woman, quit struggling! I don’t want to hurt you though gods know you deserve it.’

  He saw her bright, frightened eyes glance out to sea. He followed her gaze and there, winking on the black water, was an orange light. But the next thing he knew was pain exploding in his groin and ripping through his bowels like a starburst. He lost his grip on her, toppled forwards straight into her small fist driving into his jaw. He was on his knees like a sack of shit.

  ‘Stop her!’ yelled Erlan, his voice rising from somewhere on the staircase. Fine for him to say, thought Einar. That was easier said than done.

  Anyway, she had already thrown herself at the wall. Einar launched after her, lunging with his seax. He felt the long blade connect, twisted his wrist and rolled onto his back, but she was over the wall and dropping with the confidence of a cat down the other side before he could blink. By the time he’d shoved his head through the embrasure, she was already at the foot of the wall. He watched her stumble across the rough ground and the rocks to the small cliff edge where the sea was gently lapping. Even from there, he could see her back heaving and she was clutching her left side. She stopped to glance back up at the wall, then turned and dived into the water.