Hereward 05 - The Immortals (15 page)

As Wulfrun moved, Anna snapped up a hand and commanded, ‘Stay. He is my guest.’ The snap in her voice brooked no dissent, and the warrior held back.

‘He is a murdering dog,’ he said.

‘Every man here has killed,’ Salih said. ‘There are wars and there are wars.’

Alric stepped between them and faced Wulfrun. ‘If you have a complaint here, it is with me. I pleaded with Salih to join us. All enemies of Falkon Cephalas are our allies.’

‘He cannot be trusted.’

‘I have no argument with you,’ the wise man said, his unblinking stare fixed upon the guardsman.

No
, Deda thought.
But you would slay the woman Wulfrun loves in an instant, for she is one of the Nepotes.

‘Sometimes our friends look like our enemies,’ Anna said, ‘and our enemies, friends. Judge a man by his heart and that alone.’

Deda watched Wulfrun’s struggle play out on his face. Finally he lowered his axe, but his burning eyes never left Salih ibn Ziyad.

Rowena stepped forward to break the simmering tension between the two men. She bowed her head to her host. ‘You have brought us beneath your roof, and for that you have our thanks,’ she said.

Anna sipped on her wine, her stare unblinking, unnerving. ‘You have Hereward to thank for your safety. He agreed to protect my son’s life from the blades of plotters. In return he asked that I make sure his friends were safe from harm here in Constantinople. He knew this city was a pit of vipers, that death comes when least expected, but even he could not have foreseen the threat posed by Falkon Cephalas.’

She set her goblet down with more force than Deda suspected she intended. It rang out like a hammer in the stillness of the house.

‘I have endured much in my life.’ She eyed each one there in turn. ‘I know your stories. You have all stared defeat in the face. You have been driven to your knees. But no more. Now we will fight back against those who would crush us, and we will earn what is rightfully ours.’

Her eyes glittered as the echo of her words died away. And in that moment, Deda felt that if anyone could save them all from the jaws of Falkon Cephalas, it was this woman.

UNDER THE CRUEL
sun, two men trudged along the dusty track through the mountains. White cloths swathed their heads and their robes were sullied with the dirt of the road as if they had travelled from distant lands. Hereward and Tiberius kept their eyes down, their faces in shadow. They were all but invisible to the farmers who tramped past with donkeys laden with full baskets.

When the track crested a ridge, they looked down into a narrow, steep-sided valley. Apple orchards covered the lower slopes, the fruit heavy on the branches. Green and slow under a cloud-streaked blue sky, the Yesilirmak river carved through the cleft towards the northern sea. Skiffs were moored at a wooden quay, the sailors and fishermen sitting lazily in the sun. Two more ships drifted at their moorings, low in the water from the weight of the merchandise stowed on board. Perhaps supplies for the Norman army, Hereward mused. A force so great meant many bellies needed to be filled.

On the flat valley floor, bounded by the soaring walls of the purple mountains, the ancient city of Amaseia squatted behind its walls. Under a jumble of orange-tiled roofs, the halls were wooden, like the ones Hereward remembered from England, but here the walls were painted white to reflect the heat of the eastern sun. Above the city, tombs had been carved into the cliff-face. On the far side of the walls lay another city, this one of tents and makeshift huts spreading out to the trees and the very edge of the water. Cocking his head, the Mercian listened to the sound of hammers and the cries of workmen. New homes were still being built. The army was growing. And yet …

‘That is not three thousand men. The scout lied to us,’ Tiberius murmured.

Hereward could not disagree. They might still have a chance.

Tiberius trudged on, his eyes flickering around uneasily. ‘I should not be here,’ he growled.

‘A leader should not be afraid of seeing the field of battle for himself,’ Hereward replied as they walked slowly down the track. ‘Victory could lie in the way the sun falls, or the weariness in your enemy’s face. No scout could tell you all you need to know.’

Five days before, the moon had set and the night had grown dark before Hereward had persuaded the Athanatoi commander that they should scout the enemy fortress for themselves. But this had been a Tiberius humbled by the weight of what lay ahead. At first light, the Immortals had broken camp and ridden east before turning towards the row of brooding mountains in the north. Hereward had sensed the changed mood in the warriors. No whoops, no laughter. Eyes turned down, faces graven. Word had spread about the size of the army they were riding to confront. What had seemed like a procession towards glory and riches had become a fight for survival.

Tiberius had sent scout after scout ahead so he could steer a path through the vast, empty spaces not yet filled by the streams of Turks drifting from the east. One thing remained in his favour: that these fierce, dark-skinned people lived in small tribes and were not yet part of one great, conquering force. But that would change soon, Hereward thought, once they recognized how much land and gold could be gained if they worked together. Any warrior could see that.

The woods and green plains criss-crossed with gushing, cool streams had eventually given way to dustier land scarred by outcrops of brown rock. When they reached the foothills of the mountains, the Romans had breathed sighs of relief. Here they could hide themselves from the eyes of roaming war-bands. In the shadowy, forested crook of two hills they had set up camp, and feasted that night on deer and wild boar. The next day, Hereward had walked out of the camp with Tiberius beside him, and for three days they had followed the narrow tracks across the wild mountain country. He knew that Tiberius had been praying that the captured scout had been lying, that Roussel only had a rag-tag band of axes-for-hire who were growing fat and lazy on their spoils. Now, as he looked upon that unassailable fortress, he could no longer deny the truth.

‘What hope is there?’ the commander breathed. ‘If we rode into this valley, we would be slaughtered.’

Hereward narrowed his eyes, watching the warriors wander through the camp. ‘There are other ways. Offer Roussel gold. Buy back the Caesar. The Norman likes to live like a prince. Perhaps he has grown sick of war now he has his comforts.’

Tiberius chewed on a nail, pondering. ‘Aye. That may well be our only way,’ he replied after a moment. ‘At least we could live to tell the tale.’ He thought on, and his face sagged. ‘But the emperor will not tolerate this land within the boundaries of the empire. He wants the Caesar saved, true, though more to keep face among his people than out of any love for John Doukas. But he … or Nikephoritzes … wants this rival dead more. As long as Roussel sits upon his throne here, it shows how weak the emperor truly is.’

‘If you return to Constantinople with the Caesar, you can claim victory. You have learned your enemy’s weaknesses. And you can ride back with an army that dwarfs this Norman force and crush Roussel. How can the emperor not fail to reward you?’

Tiberius grinned.

‘Or,’ the Mercian continued, his voice steady, ‘you can take the Caesar, now, without offering gold, and claim an even greater reward for your courage.’

Tiberius frowned, eyeing the English warrior as if he had gone mad. ‘Do we fly in on the wings of angels?’

Hereward eased himself out from behind the rock where he had been hiding.

‘Wait. You will be seen,’ Tiberius exclaimed, reaching out to grab the Mercian’s arm.

‘We are just two poor travellers. So close to the northern sea, they must see many strangers here. We are no threat. Let us find out where this Norman’s weaknesses lie.’ Without looking back to see if Tiberius was following him, Hereward bowed his head and wandered on down the track.

As he neared Amaseia, his nose wrinkled at the reek of the middens mingling with the smoke from the home-fires and the aromas of unusual spices. The walls were crumbling stone, as old as the earth itself, it seemed. They had not been well maintained. Mildew mottled the front, and yellow grass and weak saplings sprouted from cracks. This was not a place that had had to defend itself in living memory. Calls and song rolled out from the other side of the ramparts. Some tongues he recognized – Norman and Roman – but some were strange to his ears.

Sweating in the sun, men cursed as they heaved bales up the steep path to the gates from the ships at the quay. Boys tossed handfuls of hay to horses in pens on terraces below the city walls. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed others winding their way along the tracks, merchants and farmers mostly, bringing in their wares on shaking carts or strapped in bundles on their backs. He had been right – two more earth-walkers would not draw attention.

When he sensed Tiberius picking up his step to arrive at his side, he did not look up. ‘You seem at ease,’ the Roman murmured. ‘Are you not afraid that you will be found out?’

Hereward smiled to himself, remembering the times he had walked under the noses of Norman soldiers across England as he scouted. The part of him that had welcomed his devil into his soul enjoyed the thrill. ‘Men have too many cares to pay heed to strangers, unless you give them good cause. Show no fear and all will be well.’

The gates hung open. They were cracked and weather-beaten, and he mused how a strong man could probably push them down. Laughing and shrieking, children splashed in a pool from a spring in the shade of the walls. He stepped in behind two merchants with bales resting on their shoulders as they passed through the gates. Tiberius kept close behind him.

Amaseia bustled in the sun. With no other towns nearby, it was the centre of commerce for the surrounding countryside. The street running along the inside of the walls was a makeshift market, with merchants booming as they tried to outdo each other in selling their cloth and beasts and jewellery and swords. Dogs yapped, fighting with each other over bones tossed out by the butcher.

Hereward looked into the faces of those he passed and saw no worry there, only smiles and cheery greetings. Tunics and dresses were made of good cloth. Heads were raised, backs were straight. Amaseia thrived, it seemed, and its citizens felt secure. Clearly Roussel de Bailleul treated his new subjects well; at least in that respect he did not cast himself in the image of William the Bastard.

Pushing into the flow, Hereward meandered along the streets. Warriors strode everywhere, some with their heads shorn at the back in the Norman way. They walked with their chins raised, as if all the world were theirs. Hereward felt a pang of anger. Sometimes he believed the raw pain of what these bastards had done to England would never go away. There were plenty of axes-for-hire, too: wild-bearded Vikings, still swathed in mail and leather despite the heat, pale-skinned Vlachs and long-haired Franks. He sensed Tiberius stiffen beside him. These men made most of the smooth-skinned Athanatoi look like children. The few seasoned warriors among the ranks of the Immortals would never be enough.

Beyond the wide streets, near the walls, there was a labyrinth of steep, narrow ways among the timber-framed houses. In the shade, the air was cooler.

‘Have we not seen enough?’ Tiberius snapped. ‘I would be away before we are found out.’

‘A man who would carve his own land out of the empire would demand a palace, I wager,’ Hereward replied. ‘That is where we will find the Caesar.’

Tiberius looked askance, studying his companion. ‘I have heard the stories of your battle in England. A great warrior who all but brought down the might of the Norman army. A giantkiller. The owner of a magic sword.’ He laughed coldly. ‘You English are a strange breed. You brag as if there are no greater folk on earth – no greater warriors, no greater artists or merchants. And then you are drunk and crying for all that you have lost and the women you have bedded and the green fields of home. But you have fire in your heart, I will give you that,’ he added in a grudging tone.

Hereward raised his hand to silence the Roman. Ahead, the winding way opened on to a courtyard, beyond which was an old stone building with grand columns along the front like many of the great Roman halls he had seen in Constantinople. But parts were falling into ruin, the stone crumbling, the roof sagging. Here there were guards, Normans all by the look of them. They lazed in the sun or squatted in the shade, helmets and mail heaped to one side. But if the palace was attacked, they would be ready in an instant.

As he watched, a tall, strong man strode out of the hall with a knot of older men following close behind. When his voice boomed across the courtyard, the guards leapt to their feet and feigned alertness. This could only be Roussel de Bailleul.

Grinning broadly, the nobleman swung his arms wide as his powerful voice echoed round the courtyard. This was a man who appeared afraid of nothing, who, Hereward thought, seemed to relish the life he had. He laughed easily, a rare thing in these grim Norman warriors. His brown hair was long and swept back from his forehead, his skin tanned from his time in this land, and he wore a fine purple tunic embroidered with silver leaves that shimmered in the sun. There was a swagger to his step as he walked out into the courtyard and looked across his domain. He nodded to himself, pleased.

‘All is ready?’ he demanded in the Norman tongue.

One of his advisers stepped forward, an old warrior by the look of him, still powerfully built but with a growing paunch, silver hair, and a lined face that puckered into a scar along his cheek. ‘We await the final supplies,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Roussel clapped his hands. ‘Then we will eat our fill the next few nights before all we have is the grumbling of our bellies.’

Hereward frowned, unable to understand what the Normans were discussing. Their mood seemed high. But then a surprisingly familiar voice rose up from the back of the group and the Mercian was jolted alert. He squinted, trying to see through the wall of bodies. Why there should be anyone there that he knew, he could not guess.