Gerutha exchanged an uncertain glance with Domnicus. ‘You’re sure it was the same night.’
‘What do you think? I ain’t no simpleton.’
‘There was another man found guilty of treason,’ said Domnicus. ‘He was steward to Lord Arbasdos, the curopalates. He had a long beard dyed red—’
‘No, no, no! No beard, I tell you. You listen to old Alethea. Here – you want proof?’ She suddenly turned her attention to her filthy robes huddled about the stumps of her legs, and soon produced from their fragrant depths a curved dagger, some six inches long. It was in poor condition and stained black all over. ‘He dropped it.’
‘The man?’
‘The killer, you mean! He tossed it right there in the gutter.’ She pointed at the revolting stream of effluent oozing down the side of the lane. ‘I saw him do it, and fished it out after he’d gone.’
‘Let me see.’ Alethea passed it up. Gerutha breathed a sigh of relief when she realized she had never seen it before in her life. For an awful moment, she had feared she would recognize it as one of Lilla’s possessions.
‘Why didn’t you tell someone,’ asked Domnicus, ‘if you saw all this?’
‘Who says I didn’t try, hey? For a start, it ain’t so easy to get around, you know. But I still found a nightwatchman and told him what I’d seen. And what do you think? The son of a slut told me to crawl back into whatever hole I’d crawled out of. Well now, a pox on him and his favourite whore – oh, forgive me, Father! – a pox on all of ’em too high and mighty to listen to the likes of me.’
‘I must take this,’ said Gerutha, clutching the blade jealously to her chest, sure that here was evidence to clear Lilla’s name. ‘May I, please?’
‘Go ahead. I’ve no use for it now.’
‘And your story – you would swear to it?’
‘It’s God’s truth. Every word!’
‘And you’re sure the man had no beard?’
‘Heavens, no! His face was as smooth as yours, girl.’ Alethea cracked another toothless grin. ‘Your pretty face. . .’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Now Erlan knew what that pit was for. No midden heap, then. At least not today.
It hadn’t taken long for a crowd to gather. Whether the outcome would reflect the sacred judgement of their gods or not, this was pure spectacle.
‘These Bulgars must be halfwits, Erlan,’ muttered Einar, ‘if this is how they decide things. It’s bloody madness, lad.’
‘Maybe. But sometimes I think the whole world is mad.’
‘Are you ready, Aurvandil?’ boomed Tervel from the high-backed seat perched on a platform overlooking the deep pit beside his hall, its purpose now all too clear.
‘I’m ready, Great Khan,’ Erlan called, hauling off his tunic and refastening his belt, the gnarled leather rough as bark under his fingers. The crowd lining the pit gave an ironic cheer. ‘Now where’s this famous knife?’
Custom demanded that the only blade sacred enough to slay a god was kept on the altar-stone of their temple – a squat, gloomy building to the east of the wooden palace. Prince Kosmesy stepped forward and offered Erlan the hilt.
It was an ugly weapon, the blade a foot long and angled in the middle, the hilt wound with horsehair stained red. Doubtless with the blood of their sacrifices. The metal was black and unpolished, but testing its edge, Erlan found it as keen as any he’d held. A killing blade, no error.
‘If I live, how can I trust you will honour the treaty?’
‘We are honest men,’ grinned the khan. ‘As honest as your Byzantine friends.’
Erlan snorted. That gave him little reassurance though he could hardly admit it. All too soon, the khan clapped his hands. An excited cheer rippled through the crowd. Kosmesy clapped Erlan’s shoulder, almost comradely, though the bastard would doubtless prefer to see him a feast for his gods. Then he turned and gave a signal. From somewhere beyond the crowd came the sound of barking – not the deep bark of hunting hounds, but the high-pitched yip-yip of wolves. Aska’s ears pricked and he started whining, pulling against Einar’s makeshift leash.
‘He’s a strong son of a bitch, ain’t he?’ said the fat man, fighting to hold him still.
‘He’s yours if I die.’
‘I’d rather have your sword.’
‘It is time!’ cried the khan, pointing his little staff at the rope trailing into the pit. One end was staked in front of his platform, the other ended about six feet short of the pit bottom. The ground was slick with rain. If this was the gods favouring Erlan in this fight, he would hate to see them angry. He hobbled over and picked up the slack rope.
‘What, Aurvandil!’ roared the khan with a bellowing laugh. ‘No salute from those about to die?’
‘When the wolves salute you, then so will I,’ he spat in reply.
He hadn’t descended ten feet before he slipped and slid on his backside to the pit floor, landing in a humiliating heap to the tumultuous laughter from the crowd ringed above him. He glanced up at the circle of faces, every one a picture of bloodlust and glee. Even Einar looked tense but expectant – his gaze as intent as a man marking his foe in the enemy shieldwall.
There was a sudden roar of excitement. The sea of faces parted and three snarling heads appeared above him. Wolves who were not only beasts, but gods. Tangra, the sky-god, its coat as white as winter; Kaira, the earth-god, grey as age; and biggest of all, Arlik, the god of death, monstrous and slavering and black as sin.
A shaman appeared at the pit edge and started wailing incantations and beating at his drum. Erlan remembered the seiðman Grimnar, and the forest and the wilderness and the silence, remembered the Silent God who ruled over that land. He murmured his own prayer then, expecting no answer, wanting none, wanting only life. Then he drew the black blade across his forearm, feeling the edge bite. ‘Give me life and give me madness,’ he murmured, then raised the cut to his mouth, tasting iron and fire. The shaman hurled the last of his prayers to the sky-god’s ear, then let slip the wolves into the pit, and death fell hungering on Erlan from above.
The air roared – with the rain, with the bellows of the crowd, with the snarling wolves bounding down the sheer, muddy slope. Erlan backed away and braced himself.
The black, Arlik, was fastest at him, leaping for him even before its claws had touched the pit floor. He ducked and lurched forward under the flying shadow, slashing wildly with his blade. He missed. Instead felt claws catch his shoulder as the beast careered on, skidding into the side of the pit. The other two were close behind the first, slamming him flat. He glimpsed wicked-sharp fangs, felt claws scrabble for purchase against his chest in their eagerness to seize his throat. He stabbed up, cut out, nearly blind with fear. There was a yelp of pain. His stomach and chest were bleeding. The noise was deafening, the pit magnifying the storm of sound being hurled down into it.
He rolled, hearing the slather of jaws and tasting the fetor of wolf breath. Momentum carried the beasts past him, and for a second he had respite to struggle to his feet before they changed direction to attack again.
He ground his boots into the mud though there was little grip to be had. The white wolf had a streak of red across its chest. Erlan grimaced with satisfaction, at last feeling the fire of the Watcher’s blood in him, welcoming it now, revelling in it, feeling strong in its cruelty and fury. Three pairs of pitiless eyes glared at him. They hesitated. Perhaps they smelled on him something they didn’t understand. Something to fear.
‘Come on, you ancient ones!’ he screamed in a voice of savage joy. Death was here. He would ride it with demon’s wings.
He ran at the white wolf but all three leaped to meet him. He slashed down, left and right, inflicting wounds, and for an instant the black and grey were gone. Only the white faced him. He threw himself under its snapping jaws, seizing its throat, squeezing, stamping his legs to drive the beast back. The white head thrashed, claws scraped viciously, carving furrows of flesh out of his chest – but still he drove forwa
rd, tipping the animal over its hind legs, and then they fell together into the quagmire, his fist pumping the sacred blade into the white fur again and again. Blood gushed scarlet over his face, filling his screaming mouth – but he knew the white wolf was finished.
Tangra was dead.
A gasp rose above him then wild cackles and yells. He flopped onto his back, smearing the blood from his eyes only in time to see a dark shadow above him. He took a blow to his chest, knocking the wind from him. He fought back, pounding blindly with his left fist, his right arm pinned and fangs slashing at his skull. His right arm was burning hot, he felt his fingers losing their grip on the sacred knife. Then the grey muzzle appeared above him, too. Everything was moving slowly. So slow. . . He would die now. . . Die. That was all.
But through the clamour of the crowd, another sound split the air. A bark! – and barely before his brain could grasp what it was, a granite-grey shape smashed like a boulder into the black wolf and the two bodies tumbled away across the pit.
Now only this grey monster was left on him, crushing his chest. The blade was gone. His hands went to its throat, holding the snapping jaws inches from his face. His torso was a fire of shredded flesh. They rolled and rolled, man and beast, his fingers gripping harder, trying to crush the life out of it, but the pelt was too thick. His senses filled with snarls and snapping jaws – but then he felt something sharp digging into his calf. With a thought like a lightning bolt, he knew what it was. He kicked his leg over the wolf’s back and rolled again, putting himself on top. His ravaged hand slipped to his boot, seized the little knife haft and wrenched it clear. His grip loosened on the wolf’s throat. The animal scented weakness, perhaps victory, and made a final lunge for his jugular, but Erlan’s hand rose first and he drove Gerutha’s little blade through its temple, deep into its skull.
The wolf collapsed on his chest. He wrestled out from under it and got to his knees. His body was shattered but his mind still seeking the next danger. And there it was, another grey beast jumping at him, blood dripping from its jagged jaws. He seized its throat, only this wolf didn’t fight back. Still, he must kill it. But instead of the baying of the crowd, he heard a single voice – Kai’s voice strangely – whispering in his ear, ‘Erlan. . . Erlan. . .’ One eye – the eye of Odin – staring at him in silent reproach.
At last he saw Aska and his hands fell away. He sank to his knees in the churned-up mud, staring around him wild-eyed. There was blood everywhere. And three corpses: white, grey. . . and black.
He flopped back on his heels, hands limp at his side, lungs heaving, too weak even to push away Aska who was licking the blood off his face. The front of his tunic was soaked crimson. The crowd was silent. Stunned. He looked up. The khan was on his feet; Prince Kosmesy beside him, face dark as thunder. Erlan lifted his arm, pointing at him. ‘Your gods are dead!’ he cried.
‘But the dog,’ answered Tervel. ‘The dog was not—’
‘They have judged in my favour, have they not! Well, Bulgar? Are you with us?’
The khan exchanged an uncertain look with his son, but neither spoke until, at last, Kosmesy nodded. The khan’s face creased into a broad smile. ‘Erlan Aurvandil!’ he roared. ‘It seems you’ve won yourself an army.’
Later, after they had pulled him bleeding and bruised from the pit, Erlan lay on his back, gazing up at the rain. He sensed, only dimly, someone flop down in the mud beside him. ‘Still with us, lad?’ said Einar, grinning over him.
‘Just about,’ he groaned, his breath coming in painful gasps. ‘Aska. . . Got loose, did he?’
‘You know me.’ Einar winked. ‘I always was a clumsy bugger.’
PART FOUR
FIRE
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Gerutha.
‘Of course,’ Lord Katāros answered, gesturing to a silk couch in the corner of his chambers. ‘It’s pleasant to speak in the old tongue now and then.’ He went to fill her a glass of wine.
‘No. Thank you.’
He shrugged and filled a cup anyway for himself. She could smell the spicy flavouring of spikenard and cloves as he poured it out.
As parakoimōmenos – High Chamberlain – his apartments were close to the private rooms of the emperor in the Daphne wing of the palace. Gerutha felt intimidated just being there. His rooms were as richly appointed as any in the city – an array of silks and ivory, gilded mosaics and polished stone. Lord Katāros himself seemed no less an ornament to the whole – his eyes kohl-rimmed, his dark hair entwined in an elaborate headdress studded with gold, his body garbed in a shimmering robe of emerald green. He settled himself behind a marble desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You are holding my mistress for something she cannot have done.’
The eunuch gave a pained smile. ‘I understand this must be a difficult time for you. But my hands are tied.’
‘Are you not responsible for uncovering treason against the city?’
‘The emperor honoured me with that task. But that doesn’t mean I am not bound by facts. And those which weigh against your mistress are heavy.’
‘But others have already confessed to a plot against the city.’
‘Yes. But none yet to the murder of the lampros, Nikolaos.’
‘Nor has she confessed.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet.’
Gerutha tried not to imagine what methods his underlings had attempted for extracting Lilla’s confession. ‘That’s just it. She couldn’t have done it.’
‘She has no solid alibi.’
‘Erlan. Erlan was with her all night.’
‘Alas, where is he?’ The eunuch’s painted lips twitched in sympathy. ‘Besides, Nikolaos’s servant testified to a private meeting between your mistress and the fire-maker. That they parted on angry terms.’
‘She couldn’t have done it,’ Gerutha insisted, ‘because someone else did. I know.’
The eunuch leaned back in his seat and sighed. ‘I take it you wouldn’t come here and make such a claim without good reason. Without evidence.’
‘I would not.’
‘Very well –’ he smiled suddenly and leaned forward again – ‘then I am the soul of attentiveness.’
So Gerutha told him all she knew: of the beggar woman Alethea, of what she had seen, and last of all she produced from her robes the dagger, laying it on the table between them. ‘The real traitor, the real murderer, is still at large in the city.’
‘Hmm.’ Katāros peered disdainfully down at the dirty blade, as if it represented an unwelcome stain in these otherwise spotless surroundings. ‘I understand why you have come to me. And it is admirable that you should wish to help your mistress. But I fear that this beggar’s story and this –’ he prodded a jewelled finger at the fouled hilt of the knife – ‘changes nothing.’
‘But Alethea was so certain. And the timing, the place – it cannot be a coincidence. The man she saw must have been Nikolaos’s murderer.’
‘My dear woman, do you know how many murders take place in this city every month?’
Gerutha sighed and shook her head.
‘On average thirty-five. More than one for every day of the month. Nearly all are committed in the hours of darkness and over a quarter of those occur in the district you have named.’ He gave a light snort and spread his palms. ‘On the one hand I feel foolish stating the obvious – that you should hardly credit the testimony of a woman who, by your own description, is a drunk and a beggar and blind in one eye. On the other, let’s say she did see a man and that he discarded this –’ he glanced down at the dagger between them – ‘object. The chances that he was the man responsible for the murder of the fire-maker are very remote. Very remote, indeed.’
‘It must be worth your time to speak with the woman herself – to hear her testimony. She may provide you with some useful detail. The city may still be at risk—’
‘I think not. The matter is in hand.’
‘Please,’ s
he said quietly. ‘I know my mistress is innocent. What does it serve the city to hold the wrong person responsible, when those who might harm us all still go free?’
Katāros steepled his fingers, seeming to consider her words at least.
‘She was very clear,’ said Gerutha eagerly, pressing any slight advantage. ‘A beardless man. She saw his face. She said she would never forget it. Never.’
At length Katāros sighed and, plucking a stylus from the table, he started scratching away on a piece of parchment. ‘Alethea, you say?’
‘Oh, bless you! Yes. You’ll find her outside Cornelius’s wine shop on the Street of the Bakers in the coppersmiths’ quarter.’
The painted lips smiled at her. ‘I don’t suppose it will yield anything useful. . . but you may consider it done. Was there anything else?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
On a rise a few miles north-west of the Rhesios Gate, Erlan looked down on Maslama’s army, his right hand resting on Aska’s head beside him. Diseased, half-starved, and surely demoralized after the brutal winter, the Arab host still looked a formidable force.
Two leagues to the north-west, hidden from view in a valley lush with spring grasses, the Bulgar horde was marshalling. Tervel’s thousands would be foraging for their horses, filling their bellies around their morning campfires, sharpening their steel.
The ride south from Pliska had taken a lot longer than the ride there. It took time to muster the many clans and tribes that had started to spread out into the pasturelands with the advent of spring. But word travelled fast, and met with no shortage of enthusiasm, and their number grew and grew on their steady progress south towards the Great City. Now Kosmesy had close to a hundred thousand of his own horsemen at his back. Now Leo had his army. And the hammer was about to fall.
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