Lord of Slaughter

by M. D. Lachlan

  ‘I don’t know. The wolfman. What about him?’

  Loys edged closer with the Norsemen. One of the voices was high-pitched – a eunuch. The chamberlain? He told himself not to be ridiculous. The chamberlain grubbing in the dirt with heathens? Impossible. The other voice was familiar to him, he thought. But who? He stumbled on a rock.

  ‘Is there someone there?’

  Silence.

  ‘We need to go.’

  The torches moved off, but the Varangians had clearly decided they were in striking distance of their prey. They ran forward. Confusion, shouts.

  ‘Hey! Let me go!’

  ‘Run!’

  A torch fell and someone cried out in pain, but the other torch went bobbing across the rocks, down and away. Loys crawled forward. Someone jumped at the limit of his vision – a shadow across the torchlight, no more. Then, leaping from rock to rock through the mist, came a figure. It crashed straight into Loys, knocking him down.

  ‘Who the—’

  The man had hold of Loys by the tunic. He wore a desert hood but Loys saw clearly who it was.

  ‘Isias!’

  The spymaster said nothing, just drew a knife.

  Loys could not say if it was the instant before or the instant after that he thought of the spymaster’s threat to Beatrice, thought of the impossible task he had been set and the creeping anxiety about what would happen if he failed, thought of the peril in which he had been forced to put his soul, of the tensions he had felt even before coming to Constantinople as he cast aside his life as a monk to take up one of poverty with his lover, the lady of Rouen.

  His life seemed to revolve around that moment on the rocks. Everything he had ever done divided into before and after he took his little knife from his belt and stabbed Isais in the neck. He did it without thought, but when it was done, thought came in on Loys like a wave into a headland.

  The spymaster lost his footing and slipped between the rocks, blood pulsing from a terrible wound. He tried to speak, but his voice was a rasp and he lay back on the jagged boulders, kicked twice and died.

  Someone came towards him – crawling quick as a cat, though he carried a torch. A Varangian.

  ‘The others are gone. Is this one useful to you?’

  Loys was breathless, more with shock than exertion. What had he done? He had killed. He was a murderer.

  The Varangian went to the body.

  ‘Dead,’ he said, and immediately started looting the corpse, stripping him of his soldier’s padded jacket, his boots.

  Loys crossed himself and tried to gather his thoughts.

  ‘What now, boss?’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  The Varangian gave a couple of sharp whistles and waved the torch. There was a scurrying on the boulders and the other three appeared.

  ‘They got away from us. You run in this gloom and you only break an ankle.’

  Vandrad examined the corpse. ‘A rich man?’

  ‘Money enough,’ said the first Varangian.

  ‘Can you hide him?’ asked Loys.

  ‘We’ll get him in between these rocks with a bit of effort.’

  ‘Good. Let’s do that and get back down.’

  Isias was a short man, if a stocky one, and it was not too difficult to push him into a cleft.

  Loys forced himself to think logically. Would the stolen clothes identify the Varangians? He doubted it. Isias had been dressed as a simple soldier and the Varangians had looted hundreds of such men at Abydos.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Loys. ‘Who knows who might come looking up here if we stay too long.’

  They made their way off the hill, down to the fires of the Varangian camp. Loys would stay there until dawn and then enter when the city gates opened. They reached Vandrad’s tent and Loys watched while the men built a fire. His heart was racing and his head ached. Murder. The word resonated in his head like a struck gong. Sin begets sin, so his abbot had said. First fornication, now murder. He stared into the Varangians’ fire, trying to anchor his thoughts. He had acted in self-defence, against a heathen too, very likely. But why had Isais been there? He was too prominent, too well known. He ran the spy network; he surely didn’t take part in individual operations.

  It had all happened so quickly and reason had given way to animal instinct. But another, darker thought was building. If he had captured Isias, could he have allowed him to live? Would he have told the Varangians to cut his throat? Could he have risked letting Isias know he had been spied on, to return to the palace and move against Loys in whatever terrible way he chose? Loys shivered, though he sat near to the fire. He concluded he had done in anger something that cold reason may have commanded, had he time to think about it.

  The more he did think, the more worried he became. Isias was the head of the messenger service. It was he who had spoken through the dark rain, he who had called someone else ‘sir’. The other person had had a reedy voice. The implications terrified Loys. He couldn’t have said for sure it was the chamberlain but he was far from certain it was not.

  Could the man who had employed him really be a sorcerer himself? He found the thought very difficult to accept. But Styliane had been plain in her accusations. And what of the wolfman he had mentioned? Who was he?

  Loys prayed for forgiveness, promised God he would donate greatly to his churches and slept an uneasy sleep.

  It wasn’t until he entered the gatehouse on his return to the city that his thoughts cleared and he remembered the guards had a record of his leaving. Clearly, he and Beatrice had to get out of Constantinople and fast.

  26 A Wolf Discovered

  Loys was woken in his room by the sound of banging on his door. Beatrice retired to the woman’s quarters and the servant opened the door. Six soldiers confronted him.

  ‘By order of the chamberlain,’ said the officer, a squat hairy man who gave the impression of having been basted in oil, ‘I appoint these your guards.’

  ‘I have no need of guards.’

  ‘They will attend you whenever you leave the palace and wait outside your room here when you are at home. Intelligence has revealed there may be a threat to your life. We need to be careful.’

  ‘I can look after myself and it’s necessary for me to do delicate and painstaking work. I can’t have soldiers tramping around. How do you think I’ll ever get anyone to speak to me?’

  ‘The guards will take up their posts now,’ said the officer. He turned smartly and the men followed him out of the room. At least they weren’t going to actually stand guard at his shoulder.

  Beatrice came out from her chamber.

  She spoke quietly. ‘We’re prisoners?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  Loys had told Beatrice nothing about what had happened outside the city, just that he had made progress towards his goal and she should be ready to leave quickly.

  ‘I’m not a fool, Loys. You tell me we need to depart and suddenly we have an armed guard. Why?’

  ‘Like I said. I think the nearer I get to the truth, the more dangerous I become.’

  She held his hand and whispered, ‘Then assume we are scrutinised at every moment. Our servant cannot be trusted, nor any messenger or soldier. Everything you say must be said as if the chamberlain stands in the room with us.’

  She had made up his mind for him. He wouldn’t tell her anything.

  ‘How are you?’ he said. ‘I’ve hardly asked.’

  ‘I’m well.’

  He drew her to him, hugged her and said, ‘I will work out a way to bring us through this. We will overcome our difficulties, I promise.’

  Loys’ old life was behind him. No looking to God now. He had fornicated. He had killed. If his soul was to be saved he needed to act as God’s soldier – become a martyr even – in the pursuit of truth. For himself he could have done it, thrown his life away heroically. But when he thought of Beatrice carrying his unborn child and felt the solidity of his connection to them, he could not.

 
He had no choice: he needed to make a success of his time in Constantinople, under whatever conditions he found himself. Philosophy, though, was an indulgence he couldn’t allow himself. From now on Loys needed to be a man of practicalities, focused on survival. Ironically, that brought him back to seeking the truth. If he identified sorcerers at the heart of the court then he would have done his job. Styliane had come forward as an ally. She might be useful.

  Loys was sure the secret of his role in the spymaster’s death was as secure as it could be. He had told the Varangians the soldier came from an elite unit, and they should sell his clothes quickly and deny knowledge of his murder. Politics, he had said, could mean their commanders would hand them over to be hanged.

  The Vikings hadn’t understood what he meant by politics so he had simply asked them to vow not mention the death. They said if he would consider them for future work they were happy to swear. He said he would and they swore. That was enough for Loys, who knew the Norsemen didn’t take such oaths lightly.

  The only evidence against him was he had been outside the walls when Isias died. That proved nothing but it did raise questions. Hence the guards? He may have been followed, but no one could have seen what had happened in that unnatural night.

  If it had been the chamberlain out there in the murk, then what? Loys remembered the words he had heard on the hill. Isias had been sure the person to whom he was speaking was in some way responsible for the odd occurrences. The other man, though, had been less certain. And he was the senior.

  He felt a powerful urge to simply give up but he knew that was impossible. Even if, as he was starting to suspect, the chamberlain didn’t want him to discover anything, then he would still punish him for coming back empty-handed in a pretence of displeasure. What to do? Blame the Varangians. But that would not stop the sky, would not cure the emperor. He had to find the truth and then decide how he would use it.

  Beatrice was very near to giving birth now and that filled Loys with dread. Had he imperilled her and the child? For a moment all the normal anxieties of a father whose wife is about to have a baby engulfed him. Would she be all right? Women died in childbirth all the time. He couldn’t bear to lose her.

  She was at his side, his hands in hers.

  ‘Attention to duty is your best way forward.’ She kissed him. ‘We will prevail, now get back to work. There is a man who has been trying to see you for the last five days. You might start by interviewing him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Meletios – he’s been calling every day since you sent for him.’

  Kavallarios Meletios was a chubby minor official of the court responsible for checking prisoners in and out of the Numera. Loys was used to intimidating people by now and the policy had reaped some dividends. He had received no open threats from anyone and even been invited to celebrate certain feast days with some lesser officials of the court. Meletios, however, needed no intimidating. The man all but sobbed as he came through the door.

  Loys’ servant sat Meletios in front of the desk then left the room. Loys picked up his fan, turned the open end towards Meletios and opened his hands, the sign he was conducting an official interview. They exchanged the tedious formalities of the official greeting and then Loys began.

  ‘You know why—’ Loys didn’t have time to finish his sentence.

  ‘I have been mentioned, I am aware of that.’

  Loys said nothing. One of the effects of his investigation had been to allow all manner of grudge bearers to come to him seeking to make life difficult for their enemies. So Meletios had been mentioned, but it would have been very surprising if he hadn’t been. Only great men were exempt from being named because they were exempt from being called.

  ‘I know what people are saying,’ he said, ‘but it was not me who lost the sorcerer. He was a sorcerer, that’s the thing. You can’t give a man like that to normal guards without warning. That’s how he got away.’

  Loys tapped the table and snorted in a way that indicated he didn’t think that was much of an excuse. He had no idea what the man was talking about.

  ‘I allocated him four guards,’ said Meletios. ‘Four! That should be enough for any man. And I guarantee this – he has not escaped. He is down there, somewhere in the old tunnels, and sooner or later he will starve.’

  This, thought Loys, was interesting. He decided to remain impassive, to give nothing away. He had to increase the pressure on Meletios, to make him feel blamed.

  ‘Your guards aren’t up to much if one man overpowered four of them.’

  ‘Well, he marched into the emperor’s tent through an entire army, didn’t he? They didn’t stop him. I needed warning. I only found out what he’d done by the back door. Thank God I have friends in this palace.’

  ‘This is the sorcerer?’

  ‘Yes, the Varangian.’

  That surprised Loys. He had been told the sorcerer was an Arab. Perhaps there was another one. Or perhaps – as seemed more likely – rumour had turned the deranged Norseman into an Arab somewhere between Meliotos and the doorkeeper who had spoken to Loys.

  ‘And what did he do to the emperor?’

  ‘Threatened to kill him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you tell me. He’s a wolfman of the wilds – why do they do anything?’

  A wolfman? The figure on the hillside had mentioned someone like that and speculated he might have something to do with the strange occurrences. Was that the same person who had attacked the emperor? The chamberlain had simply called him a savage and dismissed the danger he’d posed.

  ‘No, you tell me. I will then judge your blame in this matter.’

  ‘I’m not to blame.’

  ‘The sorcerer escaped somehow. Someone must be.’

  Meletios was deathly pale now.

  ‘I am an official, no more, an official who has done his best. I was given an impossible task – to restrain a highly dangerous prisoner without proper warning and—’

  ‘Meletios, we all have difficult tasks.’ Loys smiled. ‘My task is difficult. Make it easier and I will do my best to make sure you do not suffer for what you have done. Why did the sorcerer go to the emperor?’

  ‘To kill him, I thought. Others say he came to warn him. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I can see the writing on the wall. I know which way this is going and where the blame will be dumped. Me.’

  Loys wondered why the chamberlain had not seen fit to inform him a sorcerer had had direct contact with the emperor. How could he dismiss a man who had breached the imperial tent as a mere lunatic?

  ‘Where is the sorcerer now?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t got out of the Numera, I know that much. He’d have to get past four sets of guards to do that, and we might be lax but we’re not that lax.’

  Loys breathed in. Here was his first solid clue connecting the emperor with dark forces. A sorcerer had confronted the emperor. But the chamberlain had seen fit to play it down. Why? And did he really think Loys wouldn’t find out? Perhaps he genuinely believed the sorcerer to be unconnected with the magical attack on the emperor and the darkening of the sky.

  ‘Have you searched for this man?’

  ‘Of course, but he’s gone into the lower tunnels. There are so many and the men are too scared to go down there. The chamberlain sent four down but they never came back.’

  ‘And no one’s mentioned this?’

  ‘They told us to keep quiet.’ The man’s eyes widened. ‘But you knew all this. I mean, you’re the chamberlain’s man. I’m not revealing secrets here. It was your office that gave the order.’

  Loys said nothing again. He wanted Meletios to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘What happened to the men?’

  ‘I don’t know. Those tunnels are winding and full of ghosts. They got lost; the wolfman got them; they’re still down there. Who knows? Not my men. Not my problem.’

  ‘It’s your problem that you lost the wolfman.’

  ‘Yes.’

>   ‘So you can do me a favour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can help me look for him.’

  ‘I haven’t got any men who would be willing to do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘People have seen things in the tunnels.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ghosts.’

  ‘Men’s fears can conjure phantoms from the dark where there are none. You will search the tunnels and bring the wolfman to me within the week.’

  ‘I cannot do that. The chamberlain himself could not make my men do that. He rules according to the law and has no power to command it. The Hetaereian generals wouldn’t allow it. That’s why we used mercenaries.’

  ‘I will visit tomorrow and you will escort me. Either that or I will have you imprisoned in your own dungeon. Am I clear?’

  The man said nothing, just stared.

  ‘Am I clear?’

  ‘You are clear. But you will find it hard to get men to go with you. You could get lost and never be heard of again.’

  ‘It’s possible to get lost and never be heard of again just walking out of the palace. Losing a prisoner of the emperor is treason. And you know the penalty for that.’

  Meletios swallowed, opened his mouth and let out a loud pant like an exhausted dog.

  ‘If you insist on coming, then I will have no choice but to escort you,’ he said.

  ‘Fine, then tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And one thing. It is not politic the world knows about this. Do you have the name of a prisoner I could pretend to interview?’

  ‘I’ve got a thousand of ’em,’ said Meletios.

  ‘Good, then put the word about that I’m coming to interview some unfortunate of your prison,’ said Loys.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ said Meletios, which Loys thought was overdoing it.

  Loys moved the fan to dismiss the man. When he had gone, the scholar put his head into his hands.

  Beatrice came out from behind the screen. ‘You put yourself in great danger.’

  He smiled. ‘A noble man disdains to show fear. Isn’t that what you told me? I have the option to go – I don’t have to. It was just the way the questioning went. Do you think it’s wise?’