The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  GOLD LINES SHIMMERED on the wide expanse of milky marble. Along them, rival armies of counters stared each other down. Two men hunched over the tavla board engraved in the surface of the street for any passing players to use, oblivious of the stream of passers-by enjoying the morning sun. One of the players rolled the dice, frowning as he studied the result.

  Two other men had paused on their journey to see the game unfold.

  ‘I do not like these games.’ Falkon’s face was as still as a millpond. Karas recognized that he had never seen any honest emotion play out on those features. Every smile, every frown, every tiny crease, appeared studied.

  ‘There are more than enough in life,’ Karas agreed. ‘Oft times we do not know the other player. That makes winning hard. But there are some who have a God-given ability to succeed. I have studied you, Falkon Cephalas. I would wager you are one of them, eh?’

  ‘I am a simple man, here only to serve the emperor.’

  Falkon watched the players ponder, move their pieces, ponder some more. Karas watched Falkon. He could plumb the depths of a man’s soul. That was one of the strengths that had allowed him to carve out his own empire. But he could not read this adviser at all.

  Returning his attention to the game, Karas smiled to himself. ‘There is much to learn from tavla. Each player needs both luck and strategy. Luck may define the outcome of a single contest. But over time, over many games, over many years, the player best versed in strategy will always win. The game of life is long, Falkon, and it favours the best of us.’

  The emperor’s adviser contemplated the counters, saying nothing.

  ‘Our merchants are as cunning as foxes,’ Karas continued. ‘Their gold buys space on more ships, a fleet of them, perhaps every ship in the east, to find a way past the Turks who block our trade routes. I hear a new supply of silk has been unloaded at the quayside. I would see the quality for myself. Walk with me.’

  The late morning was warm. The Mese, the busiest thoroughfare in the city, thronged with life. Time and again, the two men paused to avoid people rushing by them. In the merchants’ stores that lined both sides of the avenue, anything anyone ever wanted could be found, so it was said. When Karas looked across the bobbing heads pressing into the shadowy interiors to buy the goods on offer, he thought how many folk still prospered despite the difficulties that afflicted Constantinople. But soon there would be a reckoning.

  ‘These are dark times for the empire,’ he said. ‘When I was a boy learning to be a warrior, dropping my sword, being knocked on my arse, I spent the hours before sunset learning all I could about our history. We were great in those days, Falkon. The Romans of the east held their heads high. They were feared, they were admired. Constantinople was a beacon in the night that cloaks this world. And we could be that way again. We should be. It is our destiny.’

  ‘There are many who feel that way.’ Falkon pressed his palms together.

  ‘The emperor is a strong warrior, a wise man,’ the general continued, choosing his words carefully. ‘But he is assailed every day, every hour, by small troubles and large. His gaze flutters like a sparrow over the land, and he has no time to see anything for what it is. No time to find the path that leads out of this mire on to the high ground. He needs help, Falkon.’

  ‘And that is why he has chosen good men like you and me to hold high the light and guide his way.’

  Karas nodded. He could tell the other man was choosing his words with care too, and he liked what he heard. He had been right to make this move. ‘And now we hear whispers that the emperor’s wife is spreading her legs for Alexios Comnenos. All the court is alive with this talk.’

  ‘I have heard it. I pay no heed to it. Some will see lust in an odd look, an arch of the neck . . .’

  ‘But if it were true . . .’

  ‘If it were true, it only serves to draw more power from the emperor. If he cannot keep his wife, how can he keep an empire?’

  Karas smiled to himself. For all his understated words, Falkon knew the dangers here. A proud man like Nikephoros would not be able to control his ire. He would wreak havoc to save face, and this was no time for turmoil. The results would be too unpredictable. ‘We each see different threats ahead,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps we see the same threats from different sides. But if we work together we can share our knowledge. We can find the answers that escape each of us alone. And thereby we can better aid the emperor.’

  Falkon said nothing.

  ‘Your wisdom . . . your army of eyes and ears you have spread out across the city . . . aye, I know they are there,’ Karas said. ‘My sword. My fist. My army of men with strong arms. Together, we can restore the empire to glory.’

  After a moment’s thought, Falkon nodded. ‘No man could question that wisdom. We will be allies, Karas Verinus.’

  ‘Only good will come of this, you can be certain of that. Our enemy in the west will now be confronted. The biggest threat will be the enemies within these walls.’

  ‘My eyes and ears watch all plotters.’

  ‘There are only two who should worry us. With Alexios Comnenos riding with our army, the Comnenoi – and that witch Anna Dalassene – are less of a threat. I can deal with them. That leaves only the Nepotes.’

  ‘And what whispers reach your ears?’

  ‘The whore of a daughter, Juliana Nepa, offered me her body in exchange for my support. They plot to bring the emperor down, have no doubt of that. They would place the boy, Leo, upon the throne, but it is Simonis and Juliana who would stand behind his shoulder, whispering in his ear, guiding his hand. The empire would be ruined in no time.’

  ‘And, of course, all men know of the long feud between the Nepotes and the Verini,’ Falkon said, as if only just remembering this fact. ‘I would think Emperor Leo would not waste any time making sure you were no threat to his rule.’

  ‘I have lived my life with a sword in my hand. Protecting my own neck is not something that troubles me. But the Verini will not be the only ones to fall if the Nepotes lay their bloody hands upon the crown. Those who had the old emperor’s ear . . . the Nepotes would see them as a threat to be quickly removed.’

  ‘We all think of ourselves as men of learning, with wits sharpened by the wisdom of years. The danger always is that we think we know more than those who would stand against us,’ Falkon mused. ‘It is an easy mistake to make, a burnishing of our pride that warms our hearts and makes us walk tall. We are all guilty of it, even men as humble as ourselves. I see now that I have not given the Nepotes enough of my time. It would be wise to watch them—’

  ‘Closely.’

  ‘Indeed, closely. I have men in their employ . . . rogues, mostly, who take the Nepotes’ gold and would be part of any army that tried to seize the throne. No doubt they hear whispers . . . words spoken without thought . . . I will have them tell me all they find in that house.’

  ‘And you will tell me.’

  ‘Of course, Karas Verinus,’ Falkon said with a bow. ‘We are of one mind here. We will know what the Nepotes plan almost before they have thought of it themselves, and we will be ready to act before they have sharpened a blade.’

  ‘I knew I was wise to come to you, Falkon Cephalas.’ In the shadows of an alley, Karas glimpsed a familiar face, pale and mysterious. Justin was watching him, beckoning with a jerk of his head. ‘I must take my leave now. There is much to do. But this talk has warmed my heart.’

  Falkon bowed once again and disappeared into the flow of bodies. Karas slipped into the alley. ‘What now?’ he growled. ‘More of your mess to clean up?’

  ‘Maria has sent word that the emperor should be brought to the palace on a matter of urgency,’ Justin replied in his whispery voice.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Hunting with his falcon and those old men he calls friends, away in Deuteron.’ He stared, unblinking. ‘Anna waits with Maria.’

  Karas furrowed his brow. ‘The two of them? Together?’ What busine
ss could these women share? They were rivals.

  He allowed Justin to lead him through the streets to the palace, where members of the court were already gathering. News of Maria’s plea had travelled fast, igniting curiosity. His thoughts racing, he climbed the steps to the throne room two at a time.

  The chamber was awash with whispers as the aristocracy gossiped about what was to come. As Karas looked around the throng, he knew instantly that the two women had planned this audience. If they had wanted to meet the emperor in private, they could have done so without word leaking out.

  Maria and Anna stood together, isolated from the growing crowd, looking like mother and daughter. They had posed themselves like beatific statues in the Hagia Sophia, faces raised and turned towards the light streaming through the window, eyes half closed, hands pressed together, faint smiles on their lips.

  Karas smirked. How clever they thought they were. Now he could divine the spark of this plot.

  The aristocrats fell silent as a voice barked the arrival of the emperor. Karas turned as the door swung open and the emperor’s personal guards, Boril and Germanos, strode in. The two murderous bastards were never far from their master’s side these days, ready to hack down anyone who dared even look with hate in their eyes. Breathless, Nikephoros lurched behind them. Karas thought how the bewilderment on his face magnified his age.

  ‘What is amiss?’ the emperor called.

  Still smiling sweetly, Maria held out one arm to him. ‘I have great news,’ she said.

  Boril guided the old man to the throne and the emperor slumped into it. ‘Tell me,’ he croaked, his darting eyes showing puzzlement at the crowd and the sense of occasion.

  Maria stepped next to the throne, beckoning Anna to stand beside her. ‘We have talked long and hard, the two of us, and agreement has been reached,’ Maria announced. ‘From this day forth, I will take Alexios Comnenos under my care. I will treat him as if he were my own true-born son, a brother to my own Constantine.’

  A gasp echoed from the gathered courtiers, followed by a rustle of insistent whispers.

  Maria bowed her head as if overcome with emotion. ‘He will have my protection, and my motherly love, and, one day, a share of all that I own.’

  Karas stifled an incredulous laugh. Motherly love? Maria was barely five years older than Alexios.

  Blinking stupidly, the emperor gaped at his wife.

  ‘I see God’s light shining out of him,’ Maria continued, ‘and I know this is the path I must follow. Only I can keep him safe, as God wishes.’

  Nikephoros looked to Anna, his mouth working but no words coming out. ‘Is this your wish?’ he asked eventually.

  Anna nodded. ‘I want only what is best for my son. No greater care could be given him than that offered by Maria.’

  Nikephoros looked around the chamber. Karas saw his dilemma. How could he deny such an impassioned plea in front of so many witnesses? ‘So be it,’ the emperor said.

  Karas watched his face, the narrowing of his eyes as he looked from Maria to Anna, the tightness of his lips. The old man was no longer the warrior he used to be, but his wits had not lost their sharpness, and his cunning had only grown. The emperor suspected there was more to this than he had been told, Karas could see, and that doubt would be like a worm in his heart.

  As the nobles cheered the news, Karas steered Justin away. ‘They have moved fast, those women, to protect Alexios and their own necks,’ he murmured. ‘The emperor has saved face, for now any whispers can only concern the affection of a mother for her son.’ He nodded, pleased that his own plans had not been knocked awry.

  ‘But Anna Dalassene . . . what does she gain?’ the boy whispered.

  ‘They both gain. If Nikephoros falls, Maria will have the Comnenoi behind her when she seats her idiot son Constantine upon the throne. And for now, Anna has gained the protection of the crown for Alexios, or so she thinks, and has forged a deeper alliance with Maria.’

  Karas allowed himself a grin. He had seen that fleeting look on Nikephoros’ face, the hardening of his eyes. Aye, the two women thought they were clever, but cracks were forming, and when the time came he would be ready to prise them apart.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE SUN WAS high overhead and the warm wind gritty with dust from the hazy west. As the gate of Rhesios ground open, a column of mounted warriors rode out of Constantinople. The ground throbbed with the rolling rumble of hooves, drowning out the exhortations from the line of guards watching from the towering white wall. Tears stung their eyes. At the head of the army shone the standard, a golden double-headed eagle against a red background, a memory of greatness that would, perhaps, shout greatness once again.

  In their silver armour burning in the noon light, the Immortals could draw the eye for only a moment. But the Varangian Guard rode beside them like their shadow, a pool of black edged with crimson.

  Hereward and the spear-brothers were at the head of the line of horsemen. The Mercian eyed his men. Guthrinc looked thoughtful, ready for what lay ahead, Kraki sullen. Sighard kept throwing concerned glances behind him, no doubt thinking of the woman he was leaving behind. Hengist was unusually still and silent, his gaze turned up to the gulls arcing across the clear blue sky.

  As the city fell behind them, Kraki turned to Hereward and grunted, ‘Like old times, eh? Apart from the horses. However much I ride, I will never get used to being on the back of one of these beasts. Give me the solid ground beneath my feet.’ He spat into the dirt.

  ‘Sometimes I think we are cursed to war against Normans until we have made amends for the failures of days gone by.’ Hereward squinted through the billowing dust towards the high land ahead. His chest felt tight, his shoulders heavy, and he knew those signs well. He sensed a threat moving around him in the shadows, unseen. Karas Verinus in Constantinople, and the Nepotes too. Though he could not divine their plans, he could feel them steering him towards some fate he could not yet imagine.

  And then there was what he believed to be the greater threat, the unknown, looming somewhere ahead like a storm at sea. He could taste the danger.

  The dream of his mother still hung over him, so heavy at times that he felt as if he were suffocating. He had started to think that it was not merely a warning, but a premonition of his own death.

  ‘Those days are long gone,’ Guthrinc said lightly. ‘No bellies will get filled by thinking on last year’s harvest.’

  Mad Hengist looked towards the horizon. For now his eyes, and his head, were clear. ‘Our bellies are full,’ he murmured. ‘We have earned more gold and glory than ever we could have dreamed . . . earned it by following you, Hereward. We owe you all that we have. And Guthrinc speaks true – there is no need to think on what has slipped away into the mists.’ He gave a tight-lipped, humourless smile. ‘But the Normans . . .? They are not something we should fear. Aye, I could find some joy in ridding the world of a few more of that warlike breed.’

  Hereward nodded. ‘We will fight, as we always have, whatever enemies stand in front of us, or at our backs. And there is always something to fight for.’ He noticed Kraki looking at him. The Viking narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You have a plan.’

  ‘I always have a plan.’

  ‘And when will you be sharing it?’

  ‘When the time is ripe.’ Hereward urged his horse to pull away from the spear-brothers. He had much to think on and he needed his head clear of witterings.

  The commander of the Immortals, Tiberius Gabras, took the lead and the column made its way along the great west road which stretched through the passes in the chill highlands down towards the western sea. And there they would find the camp of Robert Guiscard and his force of fighting men probing into the hinterlands. Those warriors would be fresh. It was only a short journey across the whale road from Apulia and Sicily. But the Athanatoi and the Varangian Guard would have spent days on horseback. Hereward hoped that would not be the deciding factor in the coming battle.

  As the
sun slipped down to the edge of the hills, the Roman army found themselves skirting a growing stream of people fleeing from Guiscard’s army towards Constantinople, their meagre possessions piled on creaking carts or strapped to the backs of mules. Since the Normans had fought their way into Apulia, crushing, murdering and burning villages as they had done in England, the flow had been near ceaseless. But now these were Romans from the villages along the western coast, all of them with tales of slaughter and misery upon their lips.

  Hereward felt pity when he saw their anguished expressions and heard their desperate pleas for food. His thoughts flew back to all the suffering he had witnessed in England after William the Bastard’s invasion. When he glanced back at the spear-brothers and glimpsed their dark faces he knew they too could never forget. All they could do was exhort the refugees to keep the fire in their bellies until they reached the city. The army’s own provisions in the carts trundling at the rear of the column could not be spared. But Hereward felt his own resolve stiffen in the face of their despair.

  Camp was made at the foot of the high hills. They supped on rough wine and hard bread dipped in sweet olive oil. Moving among the campfires, Hereward and Tiberius selected the best hunters among their number, men good with bows and spears who would be tasked with riding down meat for meals in the coming days.

  At first light, the army set off into the highlands, leaving behind the grassy plain to pass through thickly forested slopes filled with the scent of resin and damp vegetation. Hereward let his thoughts drift in that shadowy world of dark-green leaf and brown dust. A warm breeze stirred the branches. Soon they were in a rockier, wind-blasted landscape. The air grew chill, and the riders dragged their woollen cloaks around them, their cheeks pinkening.

  Clouds the colour of steel banked up overhead, and the wind gusted intermittent showers into the men hunched over the necks of their horses. Kraki, often derided for wearing his northern furs even in the heat of the Constantinople summer, laughed long and loud every time he saw one of the others shivering.