King Of The Norse E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Harald Hardrada wants the throne of Norway.

With the mad Byzantine emperor Michael The Fifth deposed, Harald turns his attention to the north. But General Maniakes has something different in mind for him.

Using Hardrada as an instrument of death, he's not the only one who seeks to rule Byzantium. Bishops lie, soldiers fight, assassins stalk the streets and lovers lament. And in the end, they all lose their lives.

Hardrada needs treasure to win his crown, and the new Empress Zoe has it. With few resources and even less time, Harald faces a difficult choice - and the specter of death is never far away.

Leseprobe

King of the Norse

Varangian Book 2

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2018 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements

As with any work such as this, huge thanks must be given to all those who encouraged and helped me in my efforts to bring Hardrada's story to the page. Without the tireless support of Miika and all those at Next Chapter, I doubt this novel would ever have seen light again. To Jayne, my original, knowledgeable and witty editor, who helped polish every word and to Janice who encouraged me to carry on when I thought the whole world was against me. I am forever grateful to everyone who has helped in giving me the opportunity to place Harald before each and every lovely reader so that they may know something of the last and greatest of all Vikings.

This book is not history, but many of the incidents within the pages did happen. For those who wish to investigate further the life of Harald Sigurdson, I can recommend the work of John Marsden, and his biography of Hardrada, 'The Warrior's Way', an accessible and immensely readable account. It makes clear the sometimes rambling and confusing sagas, upon which I based this story, and guides the reader to a broader appreciation of just how great Hardrada really was.

For Janice, my true friends and the home I miss

England, early September, 1066

Landing

The wind cut like hounds' teeth, biting deep into the exposed flesh of Edgar's face and neck, and he screwed up his eyes in a gargoyle mask of misery. He stood on the headland; feet planted wide against a gale so strong it almost bowled him over, and stared out to sea. Amongst the boiling fury of the sea, the waves cutting up in a rage of spray and noise, he thought he saw a ship. A tiny dot, barely visible through the sheets of rain that lashed down, it could not possibly stay afloat much longer. He strained forward to get a better view, and witnessed his fears become reality. It was a ship, battling through the mad maelstrom, tossed and thrown as if it were a mere toy, fragile and flimsy. As he looked, the vessel reared up, seized by the waves to spin in wild, haphazard violence, control all ripped away.

The vessel came clean out of the water and slammed down again, with a crash louder than the roar of the boiling sea. Wooden sides shattered amongst the foam, and the ship yawned and pitched, and at last capsized, disappearing under the screaming water, to sink into the seething, swirling depths. Gone, consumed by the raging ocean.

Edgar dragged a hand across his face, bunched his shoulders, and turned away. If he believed there were people on board the stricken ship, he showed no sign of caring. Besides, how could anyone survive in that? Any cries of desperate men lost amongst the howling wind, hope lost. He put his head down and tramped through the sodden grass, putting all such thoughts from his mind. Life, for him and everyone he knew was hard, brutal and quick. No time to spend thinking about the deaths of others.

Deaths of others.

He was fifteen summer's old. As with everything, this was more guesswork than accurate calculation. He may have been sixteen-summers old for all he knew, perhaps even seventeen. As his mother had died two summers ago, he had no real way of checking. Father, who rarely came home, seemed infinitely old. A great bull of a man, massive shoulders, arms like tree trunks, a gnarled face framed by a wild beard that gave him a ferocious look. Eorl Hereward the people called him, if they spoke to him at all; most quaked in his presence. On the few occasions Edgar saw him, any words he may have wished to utter he kept inside. Hereward seemed like a man troubled, his face grim with concern, the lines cut deep around eyes lost in thought. So the villagers stayed away, and Edgar kept himself far in the background.

The small, bustling village lay in the bowl of a fertile valley, the various houses and outbuildings placed haphazardly in a crude circle, in the centre of which stood a large meeting hall. Edgar came over the far rise, the rain streaking down from a leaden sky, and shouldered through fellow villagers, all busy with the constant daily battle to survive. He drew the neck of his cloak tighter around his throat and scowled upwards. How long had it been since the sun last shone? Edgar couldn't remember. He knew the crops were in danger of being ruined, the ground so clogged with mud. Peas and beans might still grow, but the wheat. The wheat was something else.

He put his head down and moved on, stumbling almost at once into Roderic, the village elder, who swore at him, and threw out a backhanded blow, which Edgar nimbly dodged.

“Look where you're going!”

The old man turned away, bent forward against the lashing rain. Edgar moved on without a word. He had been about to tell Roderic of the ship, but the old man, always so quick to temper, annoyed him, so he left it. Why was it the old became so cantankerous? Was that how it was with age, he wondered. Other elderly folk appeared indifferent to life's grinding turn, but they seldom smiled, and Roderic least of all. Perhaps the responsibility of his position made him so tetchy? Edgar didn't care. Let him find out about the wrecked ship for himself, when the bloated bodies washed up on the beach.

He reached the house he shared with the sons of Stowell the baker, and ducked in through the doorway. He pulled off his sodden cloak and fell down in front of the fire to dry himself. Great clouds of steam rose from his clothes, and he drew up his knees and held them close to his body with arms that dripped moisture. It was supposed to be summer, or so the birds told him. So where had the sun gone? What did it mean?

A shadow fell over him and Edgar turned to see Gyrrth, a thegn of immense stature, filling the doorway. Almost as large as Edgar's father, Hereward, he grunted when he saw Edgar, and stepped inside. He kicked Edgar's discarded cloak. “We must go,” he said simply.

Edgar watched him move over to the far corner, where he rooted around amongst various objects stacked up there. Edgar coughed. “Go? Go where?”

“King Harold has called a general muster of all the fyrrd. News has come of an invasion, in the far north.” He swung round, hefting in his great hands a large, round shield together with two sturdy looking spears. “We are to assemble over at Sparrow Hawk Hill, then march across to London.”

Without warning, Gyrrth threw a spear sideways towards Edgar, who shot out his hand and caught it around the thick shaft. Gyrrth grunted, impressed. “You'll do,” he said, voice flat, without emotion.

Edgar turned the weapon and studied the metal point. “My father always said that when I first saw battle, he would give me a sword.”

“Well, your father's not here. He went north at least two moons ago, when the reports came about the Norse bringing their black ships back to our land. Your father left with a group of housecarles to meet up with Lord Morcar to face those pagan scum. We've heard nothing since.”

“I know.” Edgar did not want his voice to betray any of the emotions that rumbled away inside. His father's departure had been sudden, unexpected, and he'd left no word of where he was going, or why. Edgar suspected that something of enormous importance had occurred somewhere, but this was only a guess. He had no evidence to back it up, until now. Gyrrth's announcement suggested events were moving fast. “Are we going to the north too, to find my father?”

Gyrrth hawked and spat into the hard-packed earthen floor. “Your father … no one knows what has happened, whether battle has been joined, lost or won. All we know is that the Norse are here. On our land.”

“When must we leave?”

“Now.” Gyrrth scooped up Edgar's cloak and tossed it to him. Edgar caught it and held it out before the fire. “Unless this cursed rain stops, our march will be longer still. I will try to acquire a horse, but I doubt if there will be any. Stowell had a pony, but he will use that for himself.”

“Stowell is also going?”

Gyrrth gave the boy a measured look. “I told you, this is a general muster. Every man must be ready.”

Edgar nodded, gathered the cloak over his still soaking shirt and shivered. “How far do we have to go?”

“That is as much a mystery to me as to where all this rain comes from! All I know is that today we go to Sparrow Hawk Hill and there we will receive our instructions. Rumour has it that the king and his brothers will be there, together with many lords and earls of England, and their Housecarles.”

“It's serious then.”

“Boy,” Gyrrth failed to keep the impatience from his voice. “It is more than serious – it is Vikings. The enemies of our blood.”

Edgar watched the great man disappear outside and turned to stare at the fire. So, the king himself, Harold Godwinson, lord of all he surveyed, was come to call the people to arms. The Vikings, the Norse had returned. Why now? What force, what ambition had spurred them on, he wondered. It was common knowledge that for longer than Edgar had been alive, the Norsemen were no longer the power they once had been. He knew the stories, had listened to the elders talking around the campfires at night, tales of raids, terror and death. How an ancient king, Alfred, had tamed them and how a Viking had once sat on the throne of England: Cnut. The stories described him as a great man. But a confessor had restored the land to Saxon blood, and Godwinson gave it strength. And now, they were back, back to reclaim what they believed was theirs.

This land.

He dragged a hand over his face; a face still wet from the rain, and realized he was desperately tired. The call made, battle lines drawn across the dirt, he had no choice but to comply. Edgar stared into the flames and wondered what manner of man could bring the Norse back to greatness? A man who had to be great himself.

A man unlike any other.

One

The long journey northThe magnificent city of Constantinople, 1042.

“We need more men,” said Ulf, letting out his breath in a blast as he lowered the large box onto the stone floor of the quayside. Immediately, Haldor sat down on the box and leaned forward, putting his face into his hands. Ulf slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Feeling like death, old friend?”

Haldor barely looked up. “Only when you are here.”

Ulf chuckled. “Nice to see you're still in a good mood. Well,” he glanced towards his other companion who stood like a great tree, solid, inscrutable, “what say you?”

The port lay still and quiet, the only sound water gently lapping against the harbour walls, the occasional clink of coiled chains waiting for the return of ships. The endless blue stretched out towards the horizon, sea merging into sky. Empty. The eye of the world made blind.

Distant voices travelled across the quayside from far away. The city licked its wounds from the recent battle, soldiers and citizens alike mourning the fallen and the occasional wail reminding them all of how terrible the fight had been. But to Ulf's question, no answer came.

Harald Hardrada shifted his broad shoulders, turned and studied his older companion for a moment. Hardrada nevertheless looked every inch the veteran warrior, aged before his years. A young man in his mid-twenties, many believed him older, a lifetime of adventures having hardened his body to the consistency of seasoned oak. Enormous in stature, the muscles in his arms bulged like pieces of thick, coarse rope. He wore a simple hauberk of chainmail over a white, red-trimmed tunic and rough leggings lashed around the calves with leather thongs. He held a large two-headed axe in his fist, and a sheathed sword dangled from the broad leather waist belt. Tangled hair hung loose, draping over his face, caught by the breeze, ignored, eyes deep in thought. When he at last spoke, his voice sounded heavy and tired. “This is not good. I had hoped that at least one ship might be here, but for there to be nothing…” He turned again to survey the empty quayside. The port of Constantinople, one of the greatest cities on earth, usually teaming with life, ships coming and going from every corner of the world, dockworkers scurrying backwards and forwards, off-loading the merchandise from a hundred different lands. Grain and spices, silks and linen. Olive oil, fruit and vegetables. Gemstones, ore and flax, all of it maintaining the most magnificent Empire known to man. Constantine the Great's city, New Rome, capital of the world silenced by the excesses of a mad Emperor, overthrown and blinded before being banished. “Where by Odin's beard have they all gone?”

“Probably got wind of the trouble. You know what these effete seamen are like,” Ulf chuckled again, walked over, and stood beside his friend. “Harald. We are not going to leave this day. Perhaps not for many days.”

“Damn your eyes, Ulf, if we don't…” His voice trailed away, leaving thoughts unspoken.

Ulf, ever the prophet of doom, said, “What, the Lady Zoe will have your balls?”

“Aye, she will at that. Yours too, perhaps.” He sighed again. “We'll all feel her wrath, in some way.”

“Leave me out of this,” shouted Haldor from his seat on the box, “I never coupled with her.”

“Not for want of trying,” grinned Ulf. His features soon changed, becoming serious. “We need men, Harald. A lot of men, if we are to break through the chains which protect the harbour and sail north. That is what you're thinking, yes?” Hardrada grunted. “Perhaps we could send out word, hire mercenaries?”

Hardrada shook his head. “I need loyal, willing warriors to follow me, not craven purse-robbers. My cause is just and I want them by my side because they accept me as king, not because I fill their pockets with Byzantine gold.” He shook his head. “No, they will come when I call – they are Varangian Norse.” He slapped his thigh. “I haven't travelled this far to be denied because of the fear and cowardice of others. Damn these Greeks; always looking out for themselves, thinking of ways to make more money. News of Michael's fall will have travelled to every corner of this creaking Empire and men will be looking farther afield to swear their allegiances now they think Byzantium is weak and leaderless.”

“Which it is.”

“Not for long, I'll wager. Maniakes no doubt has it all worked out.” He pressed his fingers into his eyes for a few seconds before turning to Ulf. “We'll go back to the city. I'll talk to Maniakes, come up with some sort of deal. He needs me, needs all of us. With the Scythians gone, the city is left undefended.”

“He has the Varangians, Harald. The City Guard too. Maniakes is a viper, you know that more than anyone. He will do whatever he can to keep himself in power, and he sees you as a threat, an obstacle to his ambition.”

“No,” Hardrada shook his head again, “he needs us, Ulf. He knows I command the respect of the Norse and will want me to lead the Varangians, return them to their former glory. Not as mercenaries, but as loyal soldiers to the Senate and Emperor, whoever that might be. Once we have established order, we will leave. Not as bandits, but as noble men.”

Haldor gave a cough before raising his voice. “In that case we will need to convince the General that your council is wise, and your honour absolute. Simple.” He laughed, a harsh snap that resounded loudly across the empty port. “That shouldn't be too difficult for a man like him, a twisting, loathsome liar.”

Haldor hobbled across the stones to join them, hand clutching his side. He still suffered from his clash with the giant Scythian, Crethus. Harald studied the grimace set on his old friend's face, the drawn, yellow flesh, and did not like what he saw. “What ails you, friend?”

Ulf sighed, “He caught a blow in the guts is all! For pity's sake, man, get yourself some wine, have a lie down.”

Haldor ignored the barbed sarcasm and made a face at Hardrada. “Maniakes will not be easy to convince. You'll need Alexius on your side. He trusts you, and what's more he owes you.”

Hardrada knew this to be true. Certainly, to have such a strong ally, the Holy Patriarch of the city, to vouch for his sincerity would prove priceless. “Aye, you're right. I'll find a way to gain audience with him. He'll understand, will want Zoe back on the throne, but at the same time require security. Something I can provide.” He reached out a hand and clutched Haldor's arm. “More pressing is your need for rest, my friend. Where did he strike you?”

Haldor shook his head, “I'll be fine, I just need a few moments, no more. Like Ulf says, perhaps some wine.”

“Where did he strike you?” repeated Hardrada, not wanting to keep the edge out of his voice. Haldor appeared weak, close to the edge of collapse, like a wet rag in Hardrada's hand. The huge Viking did not believe he had ever seen his old friend so frail before. It worried him more than he dared admit.

Haldor looked from one Viking to the other and shrugged. He gingerly pulled up his thin, woollen jerkin to reveal a large, angry sword cut that ran across his right side, just under the ribs. The skin hung down in an ugly flap and the swollen, mottled blue and green bruising around the wound pulsed horribly. Blood and pus seeped from the large, oozing slice in slow, thick trails.

Ulf sucked in his breath whilst Hardrada spoke in a voice not much above a whisper. “You need that tended to. The wound is deep, and your ribs … they could be broken. If a bone has pierced your vitals…”

Haldor gritted his teeth and readjusted his jerkin. “I've had worse, I promise you. Like I said, just some rest is all I need.”

“You were always a stubborn oaf,” said Ulf, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

Haldor smiled at his old friend, but it froze on his face, as his eyes grew dark. “For the moment, I think we have other more pressing things to worry about.”

The others turned to look in the direction of Haldor's gaze, towards the far end of the port.

Striding across the quay, a large group of fully armed Byzantine Royal Bodyguard marched in unison, their hobnailed boots crunching over the dressed stone, banners held aloft, bronze helmets glinting in the sun. At their head marched a young, resolute and determined-looking officer.

“Andreas,” Hardrada hissed as they drew closer and he gripped the shaft of his axe as the ice ran through him and settled in the pit of his stomach.

Two

Nikolias, officer in the Imperial Guard, pulled off his helmet and wiped away the sweat from his brow. He watched the Lady Zoe move towards the Forum of Constantine. He had done his best to dissuade her, making it perfectly clear what awaited her; the terrible scenes of death and destruction, the masses of dispossessed, traumatised citizens, fearful, confused and desperate. She listened, steely-eyed, the determination obvious. Nothing he'd said made her change her mind.

The battle which raged through the forum and around the steps of the Royal Palace, furious and terrible, dead scattered everywhere, mangled flesh, headless corpses, limbs hacked and tossed into every corner only served to convince her of the need to address her people. The stench of decay clung to the very stones of the once fabled and magnificent city, but it seemed to Nikolias the Empress Zoe cared not a fig for such horrors. Her people needed her now more than ever, and her sense of duty overcame any feelings of revulsion or despair.

She glided serenely away, even refusing his offer to escort her, and her strength of character buoyed him up, made him realise this was a woman of great fortitude, grace and determination.

Zoe, Empress of Byzantium, wife of two dead Emperors, adoptive mother of a third knew her own mind and, despite every setback, she remained stalwart and confident in her abilities. Surrendering, Nikolias let his shoulders relax and turned to the men who helped fetch Zoe from the monastery where the previous Emperor Michael V had banished her. “You are dismissed, lads. Go back to the barracks, await further orders.”

The men exchanged uncertain looks before shuffling away. Nikolias watched them for a moment before he too made his way back to the complex of the Royal Palace.

It was as quiet as the grave, the buildings shrouded with gloom. A stark contrast to how it used to be, with courtiers scurrying back and forth, soldiers snapping to attention, heralds announcing the arrival and departures of a dozen emissaries. The ancient walls of the divine palace once rang with the sound of a thousand voices, proclaiming this as the centre of the world, the pulsing heart of the sacred Empire of Byzantium. Now, not even echoes remained, with nobody except the occasional corpse to grace those hallowed corridors.

From beyond the walls surrounding the complex came the sound of citizens returning to the Forum, no doubt anxious to know what would happen next. They had risen up against Michael, and many had paid the ultimate price. Nikolias, charged with bringing the Empress Zoe out of her enforced banishment to the monastery on the island of Prinkipo, missed the bulk of the fighting. News of the Varangian victory over the Scythians soon reached him, and the evidence lay all around in the bloody contorted lumps of mangled flesh amongst the marbled pillars of the palace. Citizens and soldiers, woman and children, the vicious struggle making no exception to rank or privilege. Members of the extended royal family, wives of dignitaries, sons and daughters of government officials, mixed with those of ordinary folk, broken bodies twisted in the unspeakable horror of their last few moments. Throats cut, abdomens ripped open, heads and limbs strewn wherever he looked.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. Nikolias knew much about death, having fought many times before, but the realization that so many of the dead were children brought anguish and revulsion to the very pit of his being. He slumped down on the steps, glaring at the corpses of three or four Scythian soldiers. Never ones to baulk at the slaughter of the defenceless, the sight of them brought him a curious sense of joy. But the hideous signs of their handiwork, the murder of innocents so intimate, so close, proved his undoing. He put his face in his hands and wept.

It was some time before he found the courage to stand up and slip through the main doors.

What lured him to the palace he could not say. Curiosity, or something more. A constant, niggling concern played around inside his guts, refusing to leave; something, or someone guiding him here, urging him to continue. Although he attended mass, listened with hushed reverence to the Patriarchs and the priests as they chanted out their prayers, he believed religion was little more than a duty. If God did exist, Nikolias always wondered why He allowed so much suffering to continue. The priests told him, when he gathered the courage to ask them his question, it was mankind's fault. Apparently, God had given Man the freedom of choice. What he did, he did of his own volition, and justice would have to wait.

Mankind, mused Nikolias, had much to answer for. The hearts of men, blackened by corruption, jealousy, covetousness. These things led to the recent spate of killing, the vile excesses of Michael V, his brief but cruel reign seeming to mock every righteous corner of the glorious capital of Constantinople. New Rome, plunged into the mire of vice and sexual perversion. Was God's hand in any of it? The Emperor was God's chancellor on earth; what he did he did through the power and guidance of God. Was God now undoing the corruption, returning Zoe to power, bringing Nikolias here?

The vast corridors rang out with the sound of his hobnailed boots crunching across the marble floor, causing him to slacken his pace, move with caution. If any Scythians lurked amongst the shadows, he would be an easy target for a well-aimed arrow. He bunched his shoulders, his eyes roaming, peering into the shadowy depths. Pillars rose like a forest to the vast, ornate ceiling, the work of decades, a testament to the eternity of the glorious city. Nikolias remembered his history; over seven hundred years before, the greatest of all Emperors, Constantine, made the city his own. Whilst in the West the old Empire crumbled, Constantine secured his power base and removed external threats with extreme prejudice. Men like Nikolias helped quell internal revolts, bolstered up the reign of Emperors, and created the supreme power on earth. However, not all Emperors were the same. Nikolias knew Michael, more than any army ever could, undermined it all and almost brought disaster to everyone. Now, within a breath of the centre of power, Nikolias tightened the grip on is sheathed sword, ready to strike out at any sudden attack; stragglers of that corrupt and debauched ruler may still lurk in the gloom.

He turned a corner and stopped. Two Royal Guards lay dead against the towering double doors of one of the many royal apartments. One door yawned open, weak light flickering from within, and he moved closer, heart pounding in his ears, body tense. Nikolias drew his sword and used the point to ease the door open a little more. He gasped when he saw her.

Leoni.

She sat on the edge of the bed, head down, faced covered by her hands. Nikolias held his breath and gave the room a quick once-over before crossing to her.

A body, slumped over in the corner, came into view, head smashed to pieces and unrecognizable. Next to it a heavy, gold candelabrum, covered in congealed black blood, giving testament to what had occurred. With great care, Nikolias sheathed his sword and stepped up next to the girl.

He reached out to pull away her hands. Startled by the unexpected touch, Leoni's face snapped up, wide-eyed with terror. She squawked, hand flying to her mouth, and scurried backwards across the bed, lashing out with her feet, whimpering like a wounded animal.

Nikolias raised his hands, “No, wait!” He tried to keep his voice calm and reassuring, but he failed as Leoni slammed herself against the far wall, wrapping her arms around her knees and began to wail. “I'm not here to hurt you,” he said.

Breathing raggedly, uncontrolled, her eyes, red-rimmed with tears, flashed as she gasped, “You keep away from me, God damn you!”

Nikolias stepped back, lowering his hands. “I promise you, I mean you no harm.”

He studied her. She wore a long, cream-coloured silk shift, tiny threads of gold sewn through the material. The garment, virtually transparent, revealed every line of her young, slim body. Numerous tears speckled the bodice, merging to form larger damp smudges and without thinking he allowed his eyes to settled on them, for perhaps a moment too long. She drew her knees closer to her body. “I am a servant of the Empress, so take care,” she hissed.

He blinked, aware how his gaze might be misconstrued. He threw out his arms, “No! No, I didn't mean…”

Her body shook, terrified, her brave show seeping away. Nikolias tried a smile, and she answered it with a scowl. “I know you,” she said. “You're that guard the General sent. Sent to keep me locked away, to seduce that vile man, the one they wanted to become Emperor?” She shook her head wildly, growing braver as her features hardened. “Well, he's gone – and I didn't seduce him, so there. I'm not Maniakes's little puppet any more, do you hear me?” She clutched at the hem of her shift, bunching up the material in her fists. “He's used me once too often, and I won't do it again, I tell you. What he forced me to do with Michael … Never again, you understand? So, you go and tell that to your precious general, if he's still alive.”

“I don't know who is alive or dead, I truly don't. Whilst the battle raged my mission lay elsewhere. The only thing I do know is that Zoe is about to present herself to the people.”

“Zoe?” Leoni's voice cracked, incredulous. “But, but they sent her away. Michael, he banished her.”

“Like I said, I had my mission. To fetch her back.” Nikolias shrugged, took a tentative step forward. She stiffened again, and he stopped. “I don't know anything more. For all I know Michael too is dead. The city is quiet now, the fighting stopped. And the Scythians have gone, probably also dead, the whole scurrilous lot of them. So…” He forced a smile. “I am a sworn officer of the Imperial Guard, obligated to ensure the safety of her gracious highness the Empress, and all of her servants.” He smiled again, and this time he saw no responding look of disdain. “So, you're safe.”

“Safe?” She rubbed away at her face, drying away the traces of any remaining tears. “No, anything but safe. If the General still lives, he'll want to know what happened with Constantine.” She swung her legs off the bed and stood up, smoothing down the dress. She took in a shuddering breath, pausing to compose herself. “He didn't send you?”

“No. I just…” He shrugged again, acutely conscious of her body beneath the silk, and glanced down at his feet. “I … I needed to know.”

“Know? Know what?”

“Whether…” He gestured around the room. “So where is he? This Constantine?”

“I've no idea. He ran off, with Christina.”

Nikolias frowned. Ran off? Where would he run to, he wondered. He nodded towards the corpse. “Who was he?”

Leoni shivered, holding herself, averting her eyes. “I don't want to talk about it.”

He grunted, looked around the room and saw what he wanted. He crossed over to where a shawl lay forgotten on the floor, picked it up and went to her. She tensed as he drew close, but relaxed a little as he brought the heavy material around her shoulders. “You're cold,” he said. “And … You will need this if we are to go.”

“Go? Where am I supposed to go? The General…” She shook her head. “My orders were very precise, and I have failed. I have served my usefulness now, and he will want to discard me as soon as he can. But I don't care. I'm not his slave any longer. What he would have me do…” She shuddered, drew the shawl closer around her, “I thought he cared for me, but it was all a lie, his only thought to have Michael under his control. So, my talent for seduction came into play and the Emperor, he…” Her voice trailed off and more tears tumbled from her eyes. She turned away, pressing the shawl into her face.

“You cared for him, didn't you?”

“Cared?” Her face, when she let the shawl fall, appeared red, angry. “He used me, and now…”

“I meant the Emperor. Michael.”

She went silent, her mouth opening slightly. “I…” She returned to the bed and slumped down. “At first he was vile. But the more we…well, I'm sure I don't need to give you the details.”

“No. I think I have a fair enough idea.”

“Do you? I wonder. To you I'm nothing more than a whore, isn't that right, using my body to further my ambitions, or the ambitions of others? Well, you may well be right, but not anymore. The general, he played me for a fool, fucking me like a wild thing, leaving me gasping, desperate for more … but there was never any passion. You understand? Never any love. With Michael, it became different. He wanted so much to please me, to give me everything he could.”

“He was a monster, Leoni!”

“Was he? Why, because he wanted to rule alone, have all the power of the Empire for himself? Is that so monstrous?”

Nikolias looked to the still open door. “You should keep your voice down. If anyone should hear they'd—”

“I'm past caring. Michael's gone, I know that; replaced. If I ever had any feelings for him, they've gone too.” She shook her head. “The General is the real monster, twisting, conniving and if he's alive, he'll find me and have me flayed.”

“In that case,” said Nikolias, smiling broadly, “I think I know precisely where you will be safe.”

Three

The great Byzantine general, George Maniakes, stood beside his horse, stroking the beast's neck whilst he smiled to himself. So far so good, the past few days proving stressful beyond belief, but now he could allow himself a few moments to unwind. The main threat, Michael V, former Emperor of New Rome, was gone, ferried away to a distant and somewhat bleak monastery to live out the rest of his pathetic existence in isolation. Forgotten, and blinded. Fitting punishment for his excesses – his attempts to become a new Caligula or Commodus.

There were those in the senate who demanded the Emperor's death, to set his head upon a pike, and then have it paraded through the streets to be spat upon and jeered at like some obscene manikin from the very worst of street theatres. Maniakes resisted, knowing full well how history would judge such acts. This wasn't Rome after all! With Michael's fall, the Scythian guard destroyed, there remained only a few minor obstacles to the general's ambitions, mere irritations which would soon be dealt with. He was pleased with his decision to send Andreas, together with a body of men to the port to arrest Hardrada. As soon as he told Zoe what the Viking's intentions were, her eyes clouded over and the orders made. Andreas, as Maniakes knew he would, set off without a pause, a murderous look on his face, no doubt hoping Hardrada would resist.

A wave of elation coursed through the general, plans falling into place, the future looking bright. True, some of Michael's more outrageous schemes wrong-footed him at the start, but soon Maniakes recovered and outmanoeuvred the young, corrupted Emperor. His remaining opponent for power, John Orphano, chief eunuch of the imperial court and head of the vast Byzantium bureaucracy, fell almost as rapidly as Michael, undermined and disgraced. God alone knew where he ran off to, but Maniakes no longer cared. The fat slug's departure ensured the power of New Rome lay within the general's grasp. His plans to place Constantine, his latest creature, on the throne meant all would be well.

A movement to the right made him turn. The Empress Zoe, resplendent in her courtly robes, glided towards him. A smile played at his lips, but he mastered the desire to break out into a broad grin, and bowed deeply. “You look ravishing, your Highness.”

Within arm's reach, her perfume invaded his nostrils and not for the first time he contemplated taking her to his bed, to conquer her body, make her his own. Her penchant for lovers was well known, and she preferred them domineering and well-endowed, both attributes he possessed in abundance. But when he raised his eyes to hers, he knew such a course was beyond even his machinations. Zoe may well be beautiful and eager, but she had her own mind and the bedroom, not the throne, was the place for domination. A pity, as her body was lithe and supple, her skin smooth and taut, but such an opportunity would never develop into anything more than mere fantasy.

“You have gathered the Imperial Bodyguard, prepared the way for my procession to the forum?”

Maniakes gave a pained look. “Highness, the city streets are still filled with dead. I beg you to reconsider.”

“Your servant, the boy Nikolias, told much the same thing. I caught sight of the carnage before coming here. I have seen worse.”

Maniakes doubted it, but he remained impassive. “Highness. The horrors visited upon the city mean there can be no procession, not in the way you envisage.”

“I envisage only the rejoicing of my people when I ascend the throne, General. But they will expect a certain sense of … pomp, would you not agree?”

Zoe, always a great believer in spending as much money as possible in making the royal family resplendent, loved the splendour of being Empress. Unfortunately, her excesses had drained the state treasury and now, with the capital still in the grip of fear and uncertainty, what the citizens needed was reassurance, not great shows of majesty and wealth.

“I take it from your silence that you do not agree, General.” She pressed her lips together, rustled her heavy gown, and flicked away an imaginary piece of dust from the shimmering material. Inter-laced with gold and silver panels, the coronation robe seemed to glow of its own volition, an excess Maniakes did not approve of, fearing the reception she might receive, appearing so fine after such suffering.

“Many hundreds have been killed, Highness,” he continued, his voice low. “The people love you, that much is certain, but they need to know all will be well from now on, that the killing has ceased and they are safe.”

“Of course they do, and that is precisely what I will tell them.”

“Telling them may not be enough, Highness.”

“Do not presume you can teach me how to rule, General. I have had more than one lifetime of experience, married to two great and resourceful Emperors. I know what I'm doing.”

Maniakes felt his cheeks redden and he bowed, partly to mask his indignation, partly to give himself time to think. “Highness, it was never my intention to—”

“Enough of this,” she waved him away, “I am indebted to your service, General, but you are a soldier, not a politician, least of all a diplomat. Your answer to everything is a cut of the sword, whereas mine is a more subtle and considered response. I know the people's suffering, as they do mine. And believe me, General, I have suffered.” She pulled in a tremulous breath. “Michael's time on the throne may have been brief, but it was full of woe. Why I ever assented to adopting him I will never know. I must have been mad, or drugged, or both. Whatever the reason, I do not believe I have ever made such a calamitous error of judgment. To welcome that boy into the royal family was folly beyond belief.”

Maniakes, his head still bowed, mumbled, “You were not to know what he would become, Highness. None of us did.”

“That is as may be, and you are right – at first he seemed so sweet, so … subservient and willing to learn. Something took hold of him, some evil, and it corrupted him, turned him into a monster.”

“He was given false council, Highness. Not all of it was of his making.”

“You think not? Well, you could be right. You knew him better than most, did you not?”

Maniakes almost yelped, his heart palpating alarmingly. “Highness, I knew nothing of—”

“Spare me your indignation, General. I know full well you had my handmaid, Leoni, service his every desire in the hope of ensnaring him into one of your many plots.”

“Highness, I promise you—”

“Don't take me for a fool, General, because I am not. I have survived two dead husbands, one lunatic adopted son, and the people love me. That is something you never understood, or perhaps believed. They know me for what I am, of royal blood, destined to be Empress of the divine Empire of Byzantium. With God's good grace, I will nurse this earthly wonder back to its rightful place as the capital of the Christian world. And it begins today, General, with my addressing the people and assuring them the darkness is overcome and a new dawn awaits.”

With a great theatrical flurry, she swung away and glided off towards the forum.

Maniakes trembled as he straightened his back, a trickle of sweat rolling down his spine, cold and unwanted, like that royal bitch's oratory. He snapped his head towards a pair of guards who stood some way off. “Escort her royal majesty,” he barked and watched them spring into action. Only when they were safely out of sight did he allow himself to drag his hand across his brow and try to settle his pounding heart.

* * *

With Maniakes standing next to her, the Empress Zoe looked out across the sea of faces gathering in the Forum of Constantine, a huge open space bordered with acacia and lime trees. Its once pristine facade, however, had lost much of its former beauty, besmirched with the blood of the dead. Even now, soldiers carried bodies away, piling them into two great heaps, one for citizens and Varangians, the other for the despised Scythians. These same bodies, tossed in burial pits and forgotten not long afterwards. Zoe sniffed, raised her chin, drew in a deep breath.

Maniakes gazed upon her, standing so majestic, so in control. When he caught up with her a few moments before and told her of the duel with the mighty Scythian captain, she stopped, face like alabaster, cold and without emotion. She turned to him, aware of the triumphant glint in his eye. He took great joy in giving her the details of her lover's death, of Hardrada's ecstasy at decapitating him. She allowed no outward sign, but Maniakes knew inside her heart broke, all hope gone. Until she spoke, when his doubts resurfaced. “Crethus was a gentle and attentive lover, General. In another life, I might have wished for so many things, to have him beside me, his strong arms protecting me as I ruled in the day and he loved me in the night. But such things could never be. I am Empress and he is dead.”

Maniakes marvelled at her resolve and accepted her triumph in silence.

* * *

Zoe regarded the General with slight amusement. He knew nothing of what went on in her heart, although he believed he did. Crethus would soon be nothing more than a distant memory, placed to the back of her mind and forgotten, like the many other dead.

Not so Hardrada.

In the days before Michael Calaphates – thanks to her support – ascended the throne, she feasted upon Hardrada's flesh, before discarding him when news of his betrayal reached her ears. As Emperor, Michael Calaphates, corrupted by power, led the Empire into disarray, ordering the slaughter of Hardrada's Varangian Guard in order to secure his tyranny. By making an enemy of the Viking, Michael paid with a heavy price – blinding. Meanwhile, Zoe conducted herself with far more subtlety, biding her time, waiting, like a mantis, for the opportunity to strike. Up until now, because the Empire required his talents, Hardrada had managed to survive. Zoe smiled. The Viking would meet his end soon enough, without ever suspecting where the order originated.

Zoe turned away, knowing her lack of remorse for the dead Crethus irked the general, dulling his triumph. Belittling him, however, might prove dangerous so curbing the general's avarice required careful planning, the loyalty of his men legendary. The hero of Sicily, the victor of so many battles, his latest triumph against Michael's Scythians further ensured his esteem amongst the citizens. With a little luck and a great deal of subterfuge, a way might be found to remove both him and Hardrada at the same time. Now there was a delicious thought!

She smiled at him before ascending the steps. “Thank you, General. Your continued support fills me with great joy. Let us now present ourselves to the people and bask in their love. For both of us.” She took a deep breath and walked out into the sunshine.

The people raised up their voices in one, prolonged tumultuous cheer.

* * *

He ran through the maze of streets, lined with squashed, squalid tenements, ignoring the curious look of the occasional citizens hanging out of an upper-storey window. Constantine had never been in this area before, so unlike the splendid surroundings of the Palace complex. Here the stench of filth filled his nostrils, brought bile to his throat but more than this, the sense of threat bore down on him, made him wary and uneasy. He plunged on, like someone possessed, eyes moving but not focusing, his only thought to escape.

Next to him, the girl, held in his grip, whimpered. Dismissive of her protests, he cared nothing for her, keeping her close with the hope of using her as a means to bargain for his survival.

When they'd left the Palace, Constantine had crouched behind a nearby tree and watched the young Byzantine officer disappear inside the magnificent, vaulted entrance to the royal apartments. He'd held the girl's face between forefinger and thumb, glaring at her. “Don't make a sound!”

They'd sprinted off, tripping over dead bodies, snaking a path from the complex towards the port.

The distance proved longer than he expected and soon Constantine slowed, gulping in air, gripping his side in agony. The girl tried to wrestle free, but he maintained his grip, gritted his teeth and snarled, “You wouldn't be wanting to leave me would you, my pet?” His face twisted into a leer. “I haven't done with you yet,” and he yanked her behind him.

Soldiers roamed wherever he turned, soldiers the like of which he had never seen before. Huge men, longhaired, muscular, the looks on their hard faces enough to chill hearts, turn bowels to water. He knew if such men spotted him, death would be the outcome. So he kept close to buildings, crouched in doorways, slinked inside shadows, managing to steer well clear of danger. Now, in the tenements, the silence proved deafening. He suspected most people had either fled or gone to some designated meeting place to await news. Of Michael's victory perhaps, or his defeat?

He wondered about Michael, and Maniakes, the organiser of Constantine's return to the capital through a series of secret messages. Since his arrival, however, Constantine had received no word, nothing. Left alone in the vast, empty palace, pacing the room, partaking of the girl Christina with increasing passion but growing evermore impatient. The other girl, Leoni, despite resisting his charms, had shown her mettle by dashing out the brains of the Scythian dog who'd burst into the apartment. She acted quickly, without thought, her actions saving all of their lives. When no other course was open but to flee, Leoni refused to leave. If Constantine harboured thoughts of bringing her with him, the arrival of the Byzantine officer put paid to them all. With no time to argue, he ran, taking Christina. When he became the true power in Rome, as promised by Maniakes, there would be any number of girls to choose from, to sate his most demanding palette. For now, a royal handmaiden might prove a good insurance policy against those who might wish him harm.

An old crone appeared from a doorway and cackled. “Which way to the port?” he snapped. His plan was simple – to hire a boat or bribe a fisherman and get back to the safety of his island home from where he could dictate more advantageous terms with Maniakes. Not even his brother, John Orphano, the royal eunuch, could eclipse Constantine's diplomatic and administrative skills. The Empire needed him now more than ever, and that made him valuable. But not safe.

The woman pointed a gnarled finger over to her right, “Around the next few bends, then follow your nose. You can't miss the stink of fish.”

Constantine dragged the girl with him, the crone's fading cackling setting his teeth on edge, until at last they stepped out into the wide expanse of the port. Here all the business of the Empire took place, ships from every corner of the known world bringing in their wares and goods. The Byzantine Empire flourished through the complex system of trade routes developed since before the great Roman Empire split, its riches beyond measure, eclipsing even the ancient city of Rome itself.

Constantine stopped and gaped, his stomach turning over, his legs pieces of thin string.

The place lay deserted, silent, dead. A lone gull soared through the azure sky, its mocking cry echoing across the open expanse, the gentle lapping of the sea against the quayside walls the only other sound. No ships docked here; no men worked. Nothing.

Christina took her chance and tore herself free from his grip. She rubbed her wrists as tears trailed down her cheeks. “You hurt me,” she hissed. “Bloody bastard that you are.”

“Stop your moaning,” Constantine said, gazing towards the empty horizon.

“What will you do now, eh?” She laughed. “You're finished, you know that? When they find you, they'll kill you.”

“They?” He turned and studied her as if for the first time. A waif of a thing, no substance to her at all. What was she, seventeen? Young, a slip of a girl, who nevertheless proved receptive to his advances, never complaining, opening herself to his every whim. He enjoyed himself at first, relishing her lithe body, the way her arse stuck out, so big and round against the slimness of her waist, the way she begged him to take her 'just one more time'. But now, the conquest complete, he wasn't sure if he needed her anymore. The plan was to take her with him, but with no available ships, things would have to change. Besides, her constant moaning frayed his nerves. He rubbed his chin. She was more of a burden than a prize.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

She took a step backwards, still rubbing her wrists, and her mouth trembled. A mere slip of girl. Seventeen.

Without a word, he went into a crouch, bringing out the knife from the folds of his robes. Her eyes became like saucers, locked on the blade. “What are you going to do?”

“It'll be all right,” he said, inching forwards. “It won't hurt, I promise.”

He made a sudden lunge, but the girl was faster, dancing away from the slash of the knife and he lost balance. He made a wild, backward cut, stumbled and fell to his knees. Cursing, he spat and stood, slashed again and again she dodged out of range, the knife striking nothing but air. She turned and ran, bare feet slapping on the dressed stonework. Constantine roared, gnashing his teeth in frustration, knowing he could never catch her. He rolled his fists into tight balls and cursed God and Maniakes and his brother for ever having brought him to this detestable place.

A noise someway behind him caused him to whirl around. His heart jumped.

A group of well-armed soldiers approached, spears held aloft, bronze lamellar armour glinting in the sun, marching in perfect unison, shields emblazoned with the sigil of the Imperial Guards. Their officer, a young man, chin hard face set, strode ahead and beside him three others, one of whom was a giant, the biggest man Constantine had ever seen. The officer, however, took all his attention, the man's livid, burning glare boring into him. Constantine deftly slipped the knife into his robe and pulled in a breath as the group came to within a few steps and stopped.

“I am Constantine, soon to be Grand Domestic in the service of the Empress Zoe. That girl,” he wagged his finger at the diminishing figure of the fleeing Christina, “tried to assassinate me – no doubt on the orders of some ingrate traitor. I demand you escort me to a place of safety.”

The huge warrior beside the officer made a guffaw and for a moment everyone stood in silence.

The officer took a step forward, hand falling to the hilt of his sword. “I saw your knife,” he said, eyes flashing red and dangerous.

Constantine's throat went dry and threw up his hands. Later no one could attest to what truly happened next, such was the speed of the officer as he slipped inside the big man's guard and threw him to the ground with a jarring smash.

Yelping, Constantine writhed on the hard stone, clutching at his back, face twisted in agony as the officer relieved him of the knife. A strange sounding voice said, “By Christ, you move fast, boy.”

And then the reply, “You had best remember that, Viking. For one day, my knife will be sinking into your flesh.”

Strong hands hauled Constantine to his feet. A fist slammed into his gut and the vomit spewed from his mouth. The ground loomed up towards his face as his knees cracked against the hard ground. He screamed then something very hard and very solid struck his jaw and the lights went out.

Four

“It is an advantageous outcome,” the Patriarch said, “and gives us all time to reconsider our options.”

“Advantageous!” Maniakes brought his fist down on his desk with a tremendous smash and rose to his feet, his face twisted with rage. The guards at the entrance stiffened. The atmosphere grew tense. “How in the name of God can it be termed 'advantageous'?”

Alexius, the Patriarch of Byzantium winced. “Please, General. Don't blaspheme.”

“Pah!” Maniakes struggled to keep himself under control, pressed his fists down onto his desk and leaned forward. “Constantine was our one trump card, Your Holiness! Now, he has been disgraced, thrown into a dockside pigsty with a bunch of cut-throat pirates. And all because of that snivelling little shit's notion of honour,” he jabbed a finger towards Andreas who stood ramrod still, gazing ahead. “Thanks to him, everything could go arse over tit!”

The Patriarch pressed a hand to his face. “Please, General.”

Maniakes steamed, blew out a loud breath, and strode around the desk to face Andreas. “What the hell were you thinking of?”

“I had no idea who he was, sir. I saw him attacking the girl; we all saw it, sir. A young girl who just happened—”

“I couldn't give a monkey's toss who the bloody girl was! I want to know why the hell you put that poor bastard in the brig?”

Andreas blinked. The General's face was so close he could count the pores on his nose. “Begging your pardon, sir, I thought it preferable to killing him.”

“Did you, by God?”

“Yes sir. Indeed I did, sir.”

“Well, sir, thanks to your high-handed efforts, we may have lost the services of the most able man in the whole fucking Empire! The man who was going to help us get out of the mess that we are in. Guards!” The two soldiers came to attention. “Take him outside and hang him naked on the Lion Gate, after you've castrated him.”

The men stepped forward as Andreas turned white, his legs buckled and he began to pitch forward.

“General!” Alexius stepped forward, intercepting the soldiers, and catching Andreas before he fell to the ground. “General, for the love of God! This boy has served the Empire well. You cannot punish him so severely for one, thoughtless mistake.”

Maniakes shook his head. “One thoughtless … you may be forgetting, Holiness, but Constantine was the only sure way we had of re-organizing the administration, of getting this Empire back on its feet. If he decides to give it all up, return to his island, then what will we do? The Empire is teetering on the brink and we need a capable man to guide us clear of the shit Michael has left us in. God help us if the Normans get wind and attack, for we will have no means to defend ourselves.”

Alexius helped Andreas onto a chair and shook his head. “There could be other avenues to explore.”

“Oh, and what might you have in mind – or who? That dog Orphano? I'll not have that viper back in a seat of power.”

“No,” said Alexius with a grin. “No, I have another plan. One that I believe could be the best possible outcome for everyone – the Empire, yourself, the Church and, of course, the Empress.”

The General chewed at his lip. “This had better be good, Holiness.”

“I believe it is.” He clamped his hand on Andreas' shoulder and smiled at him. “All will be well, Andreas. Just next time, think before you act.”

Andreas, recovered from the shock of the general's cruel judgement, bowed his head. “I will not fail you again, Holiness.” He turned to looked at Maniakes. “Nor you, sir.”

Maniakes grunted, played his tongue across his teeth, and sighed. Finally, he went back to his desk and sat in his chair. “Very well. Give me the details of this plan, Holiness. Then I'll consider what to do. But, in the meantime, you keep that idiot out of my sight for the next few days, whilst I try to calm myself down.”

Alexius assented his head slightly and gave Andreas over to the guards who each took an arm and guided the young officer out of the office. When the door closed, Alexius turned to the General.

“I believe we can still win over Constantine. What happened is nothing more than a slight step backwards. Once he is recovered, I will put my influence behind what I propose. I think you will agree that my plan is quite frankly … brilliant.”

* * *

Looking up from the bubbling pot, Nikolias's mother smiled over at Leoni sitting at the crudely worked dining table. “You seem tired, my dear. Hungry too.”

Leoni barely lifted her head, offering only a slight quivering of her mouth in response.

The old woman motioned her son to come closer, and took him away into the corner of the room, out of earshot.

“Who is she, Niko? She looks terribly frightened.”

“She is, Mother. I had to rescue her from the Palace and almost certain death.”