The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  Varin snorted. ‘What know you of lost souls?’

  As he rowed, Hereward bowed his head so the other man would not be able to read his expression. All his men, his spear-brothers, were lost souls. They had fought hard to save England from the grip of that Norman bastard William, but in the end they had been defeated. And it had cost them their land, their families, their friends. They had been set adrift on the seas of fate with only what they could carry, and they had been struggling for long years now to carve out a new life in Constantinople. Once they had been admitted into the ranks of the Varangian Guard, fortune had come their way. But not enough to make up for what they had lost.

  ‘I hear tell you are a man to be trusted. Loyal,’ the Mercian continued. ‘Yet now you have no master, no allegiance.’

  ‘I walk alone.’

  ‘All men need friends.’

  ‘Not I.’ Varin leaned forward, his eyes piercing. ‘I have chosen my path. There is no going back.’

  ‘Every man can change his destiny.’

  Varin thought for a moment and then said, ‘When I was a boy, I followed my father on a steep climb, to the upper reaches of the mountain Galdhopiggen. At the top, the wind cuts like a knife, and the ground and sky become as one. Giants live there, gnawing on the bones of men who get turned around in that white world.’ He sucked on his teeth, remembering. ‘As we sheltered in a cave, with a small fire to keep us warm, listening to the roars of the giants away in the night, my father told me a truth. In every man’s life, he comes to the place where the roads cross. A man’s days yet to come are decided at that place. A good life. A bad life. Fortune. Glory. Misery. We should all be wise enough to see that crossing when we stumble up to it, but we do not. Most carry on along the road they are on without even noticing.’

  Hereward studied the man opposite him. Varin’s head was bowed in reflection. Blood trickled from his nose and he licked away the droplets with a flick of his tongue. The Mercian felt acutely aware of the two of them, alone there on the heaving ocean, caught between sea and sky.

  ‘Many do not see the crossing at all. But have no doubt, my father told me, all of what could be and what will be is decided by that choice, and once on the new road there is no turning back.’ A note of yearning edged his voice, and perhaps of regret too, for those long-ago days. ‘It has been many years since the gods brought me to my crossing. I thought my choice was a good one, that I would make my father proud. But the road I have walked has not been worthy. Still, I can blame no one but myself. This is my road now, and I must walk it till the day I die. You cannot change my fate, English. I pray to Odin only that you see your own crossing when it appears before you.’ He nodded slowly. ‘This is a truth.’

  Hereward watched Varin hunched on his bench, his head bowed in reflection. He had expected to find some untameable wild beast when he had first set off upon the trail of the Blood Eagle. Yet there was more to this man than the ability to deal death. Honour, certainly, and perhaps even more. He was hard to judge.

  But then Varin looked up as if he had been reading his captor’s thoughts, and his eyes were mere pools of shadow within his helm. ‘You are an honourable warrior,’ he said with a nod. ‘It is good to have faced you in battle. But you would have been better to end my days out in the forest. I cannot alter the road that runs away from me. And if the time comes, I will still kill you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FINGERS LIKE DAMASCAN steel crushed the tanned throat. The knuckles whitened. In the quiet of the chamber, the flailing victim’s choked wheezes echoed no more than the rustle of autumn leaves.

  Karas Verinus held the soul in his huge paws. Though he was a big man with shoulders broad enough to heave a mule, he was calm. He exerted no more effort than was necessary to complete the task. Once a general in the field, now the emperor’s closest military adviser, age had carved deep lines in his face. The greying hair that tumbled past the nape of his neck had long since lost its lustre. But though he was no longer a young man, his strength had not diminished.

  ‘You are a spy,’ he murmured. ‘A spy for the Nepotes.’

  His stare unblinking, Karas held his victim’s gaze. The other man’s eyes were wide and bulging and filled with terror. He was half Karas’ age, small and slim like a fawn. Only moments before, he had been offering a goblet of wine to his master. The deep-red liquid now flooded into the grooves of the flagstones. His clutching hands clawed at the air, their frantic scrabbling beginning to slow. There was nothing he could do to break that grip.

  ‘No words are needed,’ the general continued. ‘No admission. I know the truth. I have known since you first became my servant. No plea for mercy, either. Save what little breath you have. It will soon be gone.’

  He leaned in so that their noses were almost touching. Since he had killed his first man, more than forty summers gone now, he had always loved to watch the light dying in the eyes. What an honour it was to witness the moment the soul passed into the arms of God, to be there to guide it across the threshold.

  The eyes widened a touch more. The flame deep within them flickered and then winked out. As the flailing arms fell and the body went limp, the general unclenched his fingers and let his victim fall to the stone.

  For a moment, he surveyed his handiwork. Then he dragged the corpse against the wall and slid it behind a tapestry. Someone would find it once the flies droned and the reek rose. He would be long gone by then and no accusation would be levelled at him.

  Barely had the tapestry flapped back into place when laughter rolled towards the door. Karas drew himself up, cracking his knuckles as the clacking of leather soles approached along the corridor without.

  The candles guttered when the door swung open. Shadows swooped around the opulent chamber. A blast of chill air carried the scent of spice from the Christmas feast. Distant voices rumbled dimly. The feast would be dying down soon, the guests ebbing away until the palace was filled only with the remembrance of the Saviour’s birth.

  Amid a peal of cackling laughter, the emperor lurched in. He was in his cups, the wine making his eyes sparkle and dart. No doubt he had spent the night trying to drown his terror of the threat posed by the Turks. He would need more wine by far. His ruby-red tunic was of the finest Syrian silk, glittering with gold filigree. Nikephoros had quickly learned to love a life of finery since he had won the crown, a far cry from the blood-spattered general Karas had fought beside on the eastern frontier.

  The emperor was ushered in by his newest adviser, Falkon Cephalas, a man whose fortunes ebbed and flowed in that city where only success was valued. But Karas knew his type. A man like Falkon would never be down for long. He was short, with curly black hair shading to grey at the ears. His blue eyes seemed to see everything, but his features were oddly unmemorable. A man could hold a conversation with him and then forget he had ever been there. Karas watched the adviser smile as the emperor made some light remark, his short, flat burst of laughter perfectly timed and fading in an instant. He bowed, he swept an arm. He said exactly what his associates wanted to hear and no more. Karas’ eyes narrowed as he scrutinized this skilful display; he would never be taken in. Falkon was like a poison that took a season to end a life, and those around him would be none the wiser when death came calling.

  ‘Ah, Karas,’ Nikephoros slurred. ‘You were missed at our feast. There was a woman who ate fire and a man who became a bear.’

  ‘There was much laughter,’ Falkon agreed.

  ‘I would not willingly have stayed apart from the celebration, but the news brought from our scouts in the west could not wait.’

  The emperor’s good humour drained away and he scowled. ‘It is true, then?’

  Karas nodded. ‘That Norman warrior the Fox is readying an army. One greater than any we can bring to bear.’

  Baring his teeth, the emperor jabbed one finger to emphasize his simmering anger. ‘He is a bastard, that Norman. A bastard.’

  Pushing aside his contempt for this husk of a ma
n, Karas nodded in agreement. ‘Aye. But one that will not rest until Roman heads are staked along the walls and this city is in flames.’ Nikephoros did not deserve to wear the purple. He was too vulgar, with mud coursing through his veins and none of the bearing of a true leader. He had not even been a good general. But soon his rule would be over. Then fate would decree a righteous emperor would sit upon the throne, one with the blood of the Verini.

  ‘Robert Guiscard is an adventurer, but would he risk all he has won in an attack upon this empire?’ Falkon asked.

  ‘He thinks he can defeat us.’ And he probably can, Karas thought.

  The emperor prowled around the chamber, plucking at his tunic. Karas felt only disgust. The stink of fear was all over the man who wore the crown.

  ‘The Turks on one side, the Normans on the other,’ Nikephoros mewled. ‘Oh, why has God abandoned us? Why are we cursed to live in these times?’ Whirling, he stabbed a finger at Karas. Clutching at straws. ‘Our army is better by far than it was under Michael. We have spent good coin to turn our open hand into a fist. The Immortals are bathed in glory. The finest warriors in all the world now flock to our standard. Surely that bastard knows this?’

  ‘Is the Fox not satisfied with Salerno and all the other lands he has taken from us?’ Falkon’s face showed no emotion, but his eyes had a faraway look, the gaze of a man turning over possibilities, calculating, weighing. Karas knew that look. It said: What path will benefit me the most, here at the end of things?

  ‘Like all Normans, he hungers for the horizon and seeks to make all land up to it his own.’ Karas fought to keep the edge out of his voice. These children would try to wriggle out of any fight if they could. ‘Robert Guiscard is not afraid. He now has the blessing of Pope Gregory, who had wit enough to make the Norman his ally when he feared his own power was threatened. And the Fox is as cunning as his namesake, have no doubt of that. He has found a reason to attack the empire, one that seems honourable on the surface.’

  ‘What reason could he have beyond greed?’ Nikephoros blurted.

  ‘He has taken up the cause of Michael Doukas, of course,’ Karas replied, his voice filled with acid. ‘You know full well that when Michael was emperor before you, he promised his son to the Fox’s daughter. Guiscard’s honour has been impugned, his daughter left with nothing when she could have had an empire to her name. Pope Gregory would not argue with that, nor would any other power in Europe. If Robert Guiscard wishes to attack, there will be none to stand in his way.’

  The general strode across the chamber and plucked up the goblet where the servant had dropped it. Grasping an amphora, he slopped more wine into the cup and swilled it back. ‘My scouts tell me he has sixteen thousand men at his back.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘At their heart, near two thousand of the most seasoned Norman knights, men who crushed England underfoot, who have fought and won on every front. And he has a fleet of ships to bring them to our gates.’

  The emperor blanched. ‘And I have the Varangian Guard,’ he murmured.

  ‘Aye, they are a good few. But only a few.’ Karas narrowed his eyes, watching Nikephoros shrink by the moment. Everything was coming to a head. Soon it would be time to make his move. He would be the saviour of the empire, not this weak man, and he alone would be well rewarded. He tossed the goblet aside.

  Coming closer, the emperor reached out his hands like a boy begging his father for aid. ‘Tell me, Karas. Never was there a greater general in all of the empire. What hope have we?’

  Karas allowed himself a flicker of a smile. ‘When there is a strong fist, a stronger heart, there is always hope. One thing we do not do is wait for the Fox to attack. We meet him head on.’

  Nikephoros’ eyes flickered with a pathetic plea. ‘You have a plan, Karas. Good, good. I knew I could count on you.’

  ‘Robert Guiscard will send out a war-band ahead of his army, to prepare the way. We will smite them. And then he will know he cannot threaten us. That defeat will make him delay his attack, and we can buy more warriors to strengthen our own army.’ He paused, and added, ‘With what little gold we have left in our coffers.’

  ‘And beggar us?’ Falkon asked.

  ‘Beggar or corpse. Which would you rather be?’ Karas held the other man’s blank stare.

  ‘But if we send our fucking army to crush this war-band, we are defenceless against the Turks,’ Nikephoros said, frowning.

  ‘Not the army. Only our best. The Immortals, and the Varangian Guard.’

  The emperor gaped like a codfish. ‘But . . . but who will protect me?’ he stuttered. ‘If the Varangian Guard are gone . . . And the people . . . those ungrateful cunts . . . they speak openly of rebellion now. The markets seethe. Wulfrun’s spy, that little rat Ricbert, he says the traitorous families at court are preparing to move against me. I cannot be left unguarded, Karas. I must be protected.’

  Karas’ smile was broader this time, one that could have been construed as reassuring. ‘You will have me at your back. And Falkon Cephalas, and all your loyal advisers. No harm will come to you. We will make sure of that.’ He strode to the door. As the torchlight from the corridor flooded into the chamber, he turned back and drank in the emperor’s frightened face. He would etch this moment upon his mind. ‘All will be well,’ he said.

  The dim sounds of the feast rumbled through the stone walls as Karas made his way along the corridors and out into the chill night. The torches along the high white wall of the hippodrome were ablaze. Walking underneath them, he watched his shadow dance. Ahead, the dome of Hagia Sophia was silhouetted against the starry sky. Once he reached the Milion mile-post monument, he turned past the Basilica Cistern and made his way into the streets containing the fine houses of the wealthy. They were clean and whitewashed, with torches burning beside the doors.

  Yet his neck prickled with an odd sensation. Nikephoros had been right. Rebellion was in the air, even here. Anger, hunger, fear. The cauldron of Constantinople was beginning to bubble, and he could not afford to wait much longer to make his move. Since he had returned to his city, he had laboured hard to place his men in the positions that would matter. Once his call rang out, they would rise up as one and there would be a slaughter the like of which Constantinople had never seen. The emperor, the Varangian Guard, Falkon Cephalas, all of them would be put to the sword.

  And then, when terror was at its height and hope thin on the ground, he would march into the palace and Justin Verinus would take the purple. His brother Victor would be avenged and the Verini would rule, aye, for a thousand years, as was their destiny.

  His warm smile faded after only an instant. Justin was not the best choice to be emperor, not by a long way, but what option had he? After Nikephoros, Karas himself would be deemed too old. But Justin was broken deep inside; he killed as other men lusted after wine or women. His hungers could be hidden for a while, but once the people discovered his true nature he would be dragged through the streets and hanged upon the walls.

  Karas’ doubts did not leave him until he reached the door of his house. Inside it was quiet, the slaves long gone to their chambers. A single candle guttered in the sparse hall – he had no need of finery, of comfort – but his nostrils wrinkled at a sweet, unfamiliar scent floating in the air. Honey, and the perfume of mullein flowers.

  Frowning, he let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword as he walked through the echoing rooms. At the door to his sleeping chamber, he paused for a moment and then swung it open.

  Golden in the glow of a score of flickering candles, Juliana Nepa lay naked upon his bed, lustrous blonde hair falling across her shoulders. On her side, propped up on one elbow, she had positioned her body perfectly so that his gaze would be drawn to her breasts, and her hips, and the curls of gold that nestled there. Slowly, she ran one slender finger from her neck to the tip of a nipple, and hesitated there for one moment before continuing the line over her belly to her inner thigh, ensuring that his gaze would follow its progress and miss nothing tha
t was on offer.

  Karas met her sparkling eyes. Her smile was wide, inviting.

  ‘Karas Verinus,’ she breathed, ‘I am yours to do with as you will.’

  He felt no desire, only a deep cold in his chest. Since he had returned to Constantinople from his estate in the east, he had seen her at court and in the market, and every now and then their eyes had met. Yet they had never spoken, as befitted the representatives of two families bound by a sworn blood-feud that crossed generations.

  His own kin, the Verini, and Juliana’s family, the Nepotes, seemed destined to be always at each other’s throats. They had jostled for power at the court for long years, and that history had been bloody. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. In recent times, Karas’ brother Victor had taken from the Nepotes their power and their wealth, and in doing so had left Juliana’s father Kalamdios so badly wounded that he was now trapped in his frozen body, drooling like a madman.

  In turn, the Nepotes had clawed back their fortune and their position at court and had murdered Victor. Karas grunted. There was no love lost between him and his brother, but that killing had impugned the name of the Verini and that could never be forgiven.

  It was true to say the families hated each other more than they loathed any other soul on earth. And yet here she was, presenting herself like an offering upon the altar.

  ‘Take me,’ she said, her eyes narrowing seductively.

  Karas looked her over. At court, she seemed enveloped in a mist of innocence with her wide eyes, her open, unguarded mouth, her quick laughter, her excited gestures. Now he could see that persona was more than studied; it was a work of art that was well constructed and had to be constantly maintained.

  ‘You give yourself to me despite all that has passed between our kin?’

  ‘I do. It is wrong that two such great families should be at war. We gain no ground. We whittle each other down by degrees. Come – the time for fighting is past.’