‘It’s good to be back,’ Vallon said, not taking his eyes off Aiken.
Wulfstan knew that look and what it meant. ‘Lord save us. Don’t tell me…’
Vallon handed him the reins of his horse. ‘She’s weary. Feed, water and groom her.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Wulfstan said in a downcast tone.
Aiken hurried over, a boyish smile lighting his face, then he registered Vallon’s expression and the smile withered.
Vallon didn’t soften the blow. ‘I’m sorry to bring you woeful news. Your father perished at Dyrrachium. He died gallantly, leading a charge against the Normans, singing his battle hymn. He didn’t suffer.’
Aiken swallowed. Something in his throat clicked.
Vallon took his hands. ‘Before the battle, your father and I spoke at length about you. He told me how proud he was of your achievements. So am I. We’ll arrange a mass to pray for his ascent into heaven. You’ll need a period of mourning and reflection, but after that it’s my wish to adopt you as my son. I know you already hold that place in my Lady Caitlin’s heart.’
A tear winked on Aiken’s lashes. ‘What a waste.’ He pulled free and stumbled away.
The villa door opened and Vallon’s daughters ran out, skidding on the slush. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’
He caught them one in each arm and swung them up. ‘Zoe! Helena! How you’ve grown. What beauties you’ve turned into.’
Over their heads he saw Caitlin hurry onto the veranda, followed by Peter, his house servant. Her lips trembled. His own mouth twitched and his heart distended. At thirty-three, she was as beautiful as the day he’d first seen her – more so, thanks to the ministrations of maids and hairdressers and seamstresses.
She held up the hem of her skirts and hurried towards him. ‘You should have sent notice of your homecoming. I would have arranged a celebration.’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to celebrate.’
Only then did Caitlin notice Aiken leaning against the wall in the corner of the courtyard, his shoulders racking with sobs. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Beorn’s dead?’
Vallon nodded. ‘Along with most of the Varangian Guard.’ He put out a restraining hand. ‘Give him some time on his own.’
She batted aside his hand, ran to Aiken and squeezed his head to her bosom.
‘What’s wrong, Father?’
Vallon looked into the uplifted faces of his daughters. He tried to smile. ‘I brought you some presents.’
Vallon’s homecomings seldom went as joyously as he’d anticipated. Always there was distance to be bridged, a friction that took time to smooth away. Beorn’s death and its consequences made this the most strained reunion yet. Over supper, Caitlin tried to show interest in Vallon’s activities during his seven-month absence. He filled the silences with questions about domestic matters, the girls, Caitlin’s social arrangements. Aiken had retired to his room.
When the servants had cleared the dishes, Caitlin looked at the empty table. ‘What will become of him?’
‘As I told you, we’ll adopt the boy.’
‘I meant, what does life hold for him?’
‘He’ll join the military under my tutelage.’
Caitlin screwed up her napkin. ‘No!’
‘Aiken is my squire, my shield-bearer. It’s his duty.’
‘The boy isn’t a soldier. He has no aptitude for violence. Ask Wulfstan. What he does have is a gift for languages and philosophy.’
‘Caitlin, I have no choice in the matter. I swore an oath to his father.’
‘A loud-mouthed roaring idiot who got himself killed just like all those foolhardy warriors who perished at Hastings.’
‘Beorn died defending the empire.’
‘From what you told me, it sounds like he squandered his life to settle an old blood grudge.’
Vallon gritted his teeth. ‘My lady, I think you’ve settled so comfortably into the luxurious ways of Constantinople that you forget what sacrifices have been made to safeguard your lifestyle.’
Both of them stared at the table. Caitlin eventually broke the silence. ‘Surely you don’t mean to take Aiken on your next campaign.’
‘I do.’
‘But he’s only sixteen, just a boy.’
‘He’s the same age I was when I first saw military service. Don’t worry. I’ll lead him on gently.’
Caitlin stared through him, then rose and made for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
She whirled, eyes ablaze. ‘Where do you think?’
Vallon remained at the table, half articulating justifications for his decision, his discomfort worsened by the knowledge that Caitlin probably was right. Sweet anticipation of returning home had soured. Smacking the board with his fist, he picked up the flagon of wine and two beakers and went to Wulfstan’s lodgings by the gate.
‘I’m not keeping you from sleep, am I?’
‘God, no, sir.’
‘I thought we might drink to my safe return and Beorn’s voyage into the afterlife.’
The Viking swept a bench clean with his good hand. He quaffed his cup in one and leaned forward, eyes shining. ‘Tell me about the battle, sir.’
Vallon sipped his wine and his gaze wandered back to that chaotic day. ‘It was a complete mess…’
Half-drunk by the time he’d finished his account, he looked up to see Wulfstan’s gaze rapt and distant. The Viking’s nostrils flared. ‘God, I’d give anything to fight another battle.’
‘Isn’t the loss of one hand enough?’
Wulfstan looked at his stump and laughed. ‘I can still hold a sword.’
Vallon sobered. ‘Do you think Aiken will make a soldier?’
Wulfstan’s manner grew circumspect. ‘Under your tutelage, I think any lad would.’
‘The truth now.’
‘His sword-play is quite pretty.’
‘But he lacks fire and fibre.’
Wulfstan had drunk twice as much as Vallon. ‘The trouble with Aiken is that he thinks too much. Imagination is the enemy of action.’
‘That suggests I think too little.’
Wulfstan gave a tipsy chuckle. ‘Not at all. I remember the day you fought Thorfinn Wolfbreath in the forests north of Rus. Christ, what a contest that was.’ He glugged his wine. ‘At dawn before the contest, you were sitting alone at the edge of the arena and Thorfinn, who’d been pouring birch ale down his throat all night and boasting how he’d break his fast on your liver, spotted you and said, “Couldn’t you sleep?” And you replied cool as autumn dew, “Only a fool lies awake brooding over his problems. When morning comes, he’s tired out and the problems are the same as before.”’ Wulfstan thumped the table. ‘I knew then that you’d beat him.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Vallon said. He lurched to his feet. ‘I swore an oath against my better judgement. I don’t want to force Aiken down a path not of his own choosing. I’ll wait a few weeks and let him decide for himself.’
Vallon and Caitlin made up, as they always did. They shared a bed, made love with mutual pleasure, sat together during the long evenings, easy in each other’s company, occasionally breaking off from their private pursuits to exchange smiles.
Late one raw afternoon soon after the turn of the year, Vallon was working on his campaign report close to the hearth when the courtyard bell rang. Caitlin looked up from her embroidery. ‘Are we expecting visitors?’
‘No,’ Vallon said. He went to a window overlooking the courtyard and parted the shutters. Wulfstan had opened the gate and through the gap Vallon could see a group of men armed with swords.
The Viking marched towards the house, followed by an officer. ‘Soldiers of the Imperial Guard,’ Vallon told Caitlin.
Wulfstan opened the door, admitting a gust of cold air. ‘A squad of vestiaritae. Their captain wants to see you. Won’t say why.’
‘Show him in.’
Caitlin came close. ‘What can they want?’
Vallon shook his head and faced the door. Boots slapped on the floo
r with military precision and a young officer entered, wearing a fur mantle against the cold. He snapped a salute at Vallon and made a bow to Caitlin. ‘John Chlorus, commander of a fifty in the vestiaritae, with orders for Count Vallon the Frank.’
Vallon sketched a salute. ‘I know your face.’
‘I know yours, sir. We fought at Dyrrachium. You’re one of the few mercenaries I do recognise. Most of the others I know only from their backs.’
‘And the reason for your visit?’
‘My orders are to escort you to the Great Palace. You’d better wrap up warm. We’re travelling by boat.’
That was a two-mile journey. It would be dark before they reached the palace. ‘What’s the purpose of the summons?’
‘That I can’t tell you, Count.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Chlorus hesitated. ‘My orders are to accompany you to the palace. That’s all.’
Caitlin stepped between them. ‘Night is falling. Do you really think I’d let you carry my husband into the dark without knowing who he’s meeting?’
Chlorus had been trying to keep his eyes off her since entering.
‘Well?’ Caitlin demanded.
‘My orders were issued by the Logothete tou Dromou.’
Vallon’s eyes narrowed. The title translated as something like the ‘Auditor of the Roads’, but the Logothete’s responsibilities went much further than maintaining the empire’s highways. He supervised the Byzantine government’s postal service and diplomatic corps, monitored the activities of foreigners in Constantinople and ran an empire-wide network of spies and informers. He was in effect the emperor’s foreign minister, a personal adviser who wielded great and covert influence.
‘In that case I won’t keep the minister a moment longer than necessary. You’ll have to excuse me while I make myself presentable. My house guard will bring wine to warm you.’ Vallon cast a loaded look at the Viking hovering behind the officer, his hand on his sword, his face glowering with mistrust. ‘Wulfstan, the soldiers must be perishing. Invite them inside.’
Caitlin hurried after Vallon as he made for their sleeping chamber. She seized his elbow. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Vallon, struggling out of his gown.
Caitlin watched him dress. ‘It must have something to do with you saving the emperor’s life.’
‘Don’t speak of it. According to the official accounts, Alexius fought his way to freedom after slaying twenty Normans and riding his horse up a hundred-foot precipice.’
With mounting impatience, Caitlin watched Vallon pull on a tunic. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear that. Let me.’
He let her complete his costume and then he buckled on his sword. She stood back and appraised him. ‘Well, you won’t disgrace us. I’m sure the emperor intends to reward you.’
Vallon took her in his arms and kissed her. Their lips lingered. She stroked his neck. ‘Return soon, dear husband. I want to show how much I love you.’
‘As soon as I can,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll hold you to your promise.’
He broke the clinch, turned and went to face his destiny with a neutral smile. ‘Shall we go?’
A caique rowed by eight men carried them down the Bosporus, their passage speeded by a cutting northerly. Vallon’s escort spoke little and only among themselves. Dreary dusk darkened to starless night. Shielded by a windbreak, Vallon watched the torches on the great sea walls sliding past to starboard. He wondered how he would return home, and then it occurred to him that this might be a one-way journey. Officers who’d distinguished themselves in battle weren’t wrenched from the fireside on a cold winter night.
They passed the Pharos, its flame projected by mirrors far out to sea, and docked at the port of Bucoleon, the emperor’s private harbour south of the Great Palace complex. Vallon’s heart beat faster. The escort formed up around him and marched through a postern guarded by bronze lions. They crossed a series of open spaces lit by lanterns whose fitful flames illuminated gardens and fish ponds, pavilions and pleasure grounds. Vallon had never been inside the complex before and had no idea where the escort was taking him. They angled left towards a massy building with random lights showing at some of the windows.
‘Which palace is this?’
‘Daphne,’ said Chlorus. He ran up a monumental flight of steps leading to the entrance. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to hand over your sword and submit to a search.’
Vallon stood unmoving while the men patted him for secret weapons. Chlorus pounded on the doors and they opened into a blaze of candelabra. A chamberlain carrying a silver staff of office received them and led the way through aisles and halls supported by onyx and porphyry columns, through lofty chambers decorated with polychrome mosaics and tapestries, across pavements inset with gold peacocks and eagles, past fountains spouting water from the mouths of bronze dolphins. At each entrance guardsmen and eunuchs stood rooted at attention.
They entered a plain room with a door at the far end guarded by two soldiers. One of them threw the door open and Vallon found himself in a passage or tunnel lit by torches in sconces. His footsteps echoed off bare walls wringing with condensation. The passage must have been fifty yards long and the torches fluttered in an icy draught issuing from the far end.
The chamberlain halted at an entrance open to the night. ‘Wait here.’
He went out and gave a deep bow, murmured something inaudible and received an even fainter response. He turned and beckoned Chlorus forward. The officer put every fibre of his being into his salute. ‘Allagion Chlorus reporting with Count Vallon.’
‘Admit the count,’ a voice said, ‘then you and your men withdraw.’
Vallon stepped onto a covered balcony overlooking a lake of darkness surrounded by the faint breathing glow of the city. It took a moment to realise that the U-shaped arena beneath him was the Hippodrome, and that he was looking down on it from the imperial box. His flesh seemed to congeal about his bones.
Three figures swathed in fur overgarments occupied the balcony, seated around two braziers that cast only enough light to suggest form but not features. Vallon had the impression that one of them was veiled and possibly a woman.
One of the muffled shapes rose. ‘An interesting perspective,’ he said. ‘Looking out over the city while it sleeps.’
Vallon struggled for words. ‘Indeed.’
‘I am Theoctistus Scylitzes, Logothete tou Dromou. I apologise for dragging you away from your hearth on such a bitter night.’
Vallon decided that a deep bow was sufficient response. No seat had been set out for him and the minister obviously had no intention of introducing the other figures. Vallon indicated the arena. ‘It’s strange to see it empty. The last time I was in the Hippodrome it must have held sixty thousand spectators.’
A breeze fanned the coals, throwing the Logothete’s bearded face into relief. He held up what looked like a bound document. ‘I’ve been telling the emperor about the travels that led you from the barbarian northlands to Constantinople.’
Vallon’s nape crawled at that ‘I’ve been telling’. His gaze darted to the other two figures. Was that the emperor? Surely not.
‘Yes,’ said the Logothete, ‘I spent two days studying the report you wrote for my predecessor.’
Vallon found his voice. ‘I didn’t pen it myself. It was written nine years ago, before I’d mastered Greek. The account of our travels was set down by a companion, Hero of Syracuse.’
‘Quite so. He seems to have a gift for literary exposition.’
‘He has many gifts.’
‘And a fertile imagination.’
‘My Lord?’
The Logothete tapped the book. ‘Most interesting, absolutely fascinating.’ He paused. ‘If true.’
‘Tell me which part of the account rings false and I’ll try to set your doubts to rest.’
Theoctistus laughed and smacked the document across his knee. ‘The whole damn thing. Are you really t
elling me that you journeyed from France to England, then sailed north to Ultima Thule before returning south through the land of Rus and crossing the Black Sea to Rum?’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘And all to deliver a ransom of falcons demanded by that rogue Suleyman.’
‘In essence, yes, Lord.’
The Logothete appraised him. ‘You’re a remarkable fellow, Vallon.’
‘Remarkably lucky. If I succeeded, it was because I was well served by a brave and ingenious company.’
One of the other figures leaned towards the Logothete and whispered. The minister nodded.
‘Vallon, I’ll come to the point. I want you to undertake another journey on behalf of the empire.’
Vallon’s guts constricted. ‘May I ask where you propose to send me?’
The Logothete took a moment to answer. ‘In your account you describe a former Byzantine diplomat, a noted traveller known as Cosmas Monopthalmos.’
Vallon saw the Greek’s dark eye as if it were yesterday. ‘Indeed I do, Lord. Although I only met him in his dying hours, he left a lasting impression.’
‘Then you’ll remember that Cosmas travelled as far east as Samarkand.’
‘It’s only a name to me.’
‘Samarkand lies beyond the Oxus, in the wilderness that spawned the Seljuk Turks and all the other swarms of horse nomads who plague our eastern frontiers.’
‘You want me to lead a mission to Samarkand?’
‘You’ll pass through it. I calculate that it marks the halfway point on your journey.’
Despite the cold, sweat filmed Vallon’s forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Lord. My knowledge of that part of the world is flimsy.’
The glow from the braziers cast the Logothete’s face in sinister relief. ‘Have you heard of an empire called China? It goes by other names, including Cathay, though some reports suggest that Cathay and China are separate empires. Its own citizens, subjects of the Song emperor, call it the Middle Kingdom or Celestial Empire, titles stemming from their belief that it occupies an exalted position between heaven and earth.’
‘I’ve heard rumours of a rich kingdom at the eastern end of the world. I have no idea how to reach it.’
Imperial Fire Page 4
