Tom Harper: The mosaic of shadows

The girl who had been dressing herself when I entered had left the room, but now returned carrying a cup heavily crusted with coloured stones. She gave it to Vassos who drained its contents in a single gulp, leaving only a small trail dribbling down his cloven chin. He dropped it heedlessly on the floor, impervious to the clatter, and in the pause, I spoke again.

‘Not boys. I seek men — and not for carnal pleasures. For dangerous tasks. I understood you could provide them.’ It now seemed a faint hope: a lesson for trusting so much to the words of a charlatan and his dog.

But Vassos had gone very still. ‘Men for dangerous tasks,’ he mused. ‘More dangerous than turning their arses over to you?’

‘Men’s work, not whores.”

‘I can sell you men for any task.’ Vassos delivered each word with slow consideration. ‘Any task which pleases me. But I do not know that I like your task.’

‘Others may have paid you for similar,’ I suggested.

‘The business I do with others is my own affair. The business I do with you. .’ He thought on this. ‘I choose not to do with you. You know the watchwords and you speak of danger, but I think you are the danger, my friend. Please leave my house.’

‘I need to know if a man hired some men of you, perhaps in the last week or month. I will pay handsomely for the knowledge.’ Again I allowed the gold coin to appear and disappear in my hand.

Vassos simply laughed, an ugly laugh that stirred the girl on the bed to look up, wide-eyed. ‘You can buy my whores, and treat them as you pay for them, but you cannot buy me with your magician’s gold. My reputation,’ he explained solemnly, ‘is everything. Now go.’

‘Tell me who you’ve hired mercenaries to,’ I persisted. ‘Tell me and. .’

My plea was interrupted by a piercing whistle, as Vassos stuck two fingers between his yellow teeth and blew hard through them. ‘You will leave my house,’ he said, smirking. ‘Vassos’ hospitality is legendary, but it is not to be abused. I will have my boys see you out.’

Still I did not move. I heard the sound of running footsteps, then shouts of alarm and the noises of a scuffle. A puzzled look passed over Vassos’ face, but before he could act the door came crashing open and two giant bodies burst in. They moved like lions in the arena, bounding beyond me in a single stride and hurling Vassos into the stone wall behind. The back of an axe drove mercilessly into the fat of his stomach and he howled in agony; the skirt he wore slipped from his haunches and fell to the floor, exposing his shrivelled loins. Then he found the shaft of another axe pressed hard against his neck, almost crushing his throat in, and the wailing stopped.

A third figure stepped in through the shattered door. He was little more than a shadow against the daylight, but already the vast trunk and menacing arms were familiar to me: Sigurd, the Varangian captain. He leaned his axe against a chair and unstrapped the mace from his belt, hefting it in his broad hands as he approached the pimp cowering by the wall. The girl who had brought Vassos’ cup screamed at the sight of him, and fled behind a curtain into the next room, while the girl on the bed sat up dazed, heedless of her nakedness.

Sigurd looked at her, at the bony ribs and breasts scarcely plumper than a boy’s. He picked up the cloth that Vassos had worn and threw it over to her.

‘Cover yourself,’ he told her shortly. I doubt she understood him, for I guessed it would have been Vassos’ custom to use foreigners and immigrants for his vile purposes, but she clutched it to her chest and wrapped her bare arms over it. That seemed to satisfy Sigurd.

‘Now,’ he said angrily, turning to Vassos. ‘You have an ugly face, but I can make it uglier if I try. Who hired the men who tried to kill the Emperor?’

I winced; it was not the tack I would have taken. But I did not have a fearsome mace in my hands, and two of my lieutenants pinning Vassos to the wall. I kept silent and watched.

‘I never hired men to kill the Emperor,’ gasped Vassos, his voice now curiously high-pitched. ‘I love the Emperor. I. .’

Sigurd cut him short with an open-handed slap across his left cheek. The Varangian wore many rings, and his hand came away smeared with blood.

‘You do not love the Emperor,’ he told Vassos. ‘I love the Emperor. You would have killed him for a fistful of silver.’

Vassos glared at him with undisguised hatred, and tried to spit in his face. But the axe-haft was too tight against his throat, and he succeeded only in leaving a gob of spittle and blood hanging from his chin.

Sigurd eyed him with contempt. ‘You should never do that,’ he warned dangerously. ‘If your slime had reached me, I might have seen to it that nothing ever came out of your mouth again.’ He held out his mace with a rigid arm, and pushed its spiked ball so close to Vassos’ lips that he was forced to suckle it like a baby.

The girl on the bed stirred. ‘There was a monk.’

So unexpected was her contribution that Sigurd jerked the mace away, tearing the corner of Vassos’ mouth. The girl was shivering — from fear, I guessed, for she had pulled a blanket over her and was no longer shameful to look at — but her voice carried the ring of certainty.

‘A monk?’ said Sigurd. ‘What of him? A Roman monk?’

The girl shrugged, the blanket sliding from her shoulder. ‘A monk. I was here. Vassos let him use me for free because he paid so much money.’ Her voice was desolate. ‘He took me like a boy. Like an animal.’

Sigurd took this news in silence, and — to judge from the tinge in his cheeks — embarrassment at hearing her degradations. In the ensuing silence, I spoke gently.

‘What is your name?’

‘Ephrosene.’ She seemed surprised to be asked.

‘Where are you from, Ephrosene?’

‘From Dacia.’

‘How long have you been in the city?’

She shrugged again, but this time caught the sliding blanket. ‘Six months? Eight?’

‘And you say there was a monk. How long ago?’

‘Three weeks. Maybe four. He came several times. After the first time I tried to hide when he came, but sometimes he came unwarned. Sometimes Vassos dragged me out for him.’

‘And did he come just for you?’

A tear ran down her face; I crossed to the bed and sat beside her, putting an arm around her thin waist.

‘It’s all right, Ephrosene,’ I told her. ‘You’re safe from him now. From the monk, from Vassos, from everyone. Look at Sigurd,’ I added, pointing to the Varangian, whose mace never wavered before the pimp’s mouth. ‘If he protects you, who can harm you?’

The girl wiped her cheek, and smoothed her hair back off her face.

‘The monk came for soldiers. I was his entertainment. He wanted four men to travel with him — and a child.’ She bit her lip, while the three Varangians and I looked on, disgusted; we could all of us imagine why he would have wanted the child.

‘Did he explain his purpose with the soldiers?’

She shook her head. ‘“A dangerous task,” was all he said. He paid much gold. Vassos was pleased. He bought me a silver ring.’ She shuddered.

‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

She thought for a moment. ‘The monk, two weeks ago, I think. He came to meet the Bulgars, to take them away with him.’

‘And did you know these Bulgars?’

‘No.’

‘You had never seen them before?’

‘No.’

Her tears had stopped now; I pulled my arm from around her and made to stand up. But Ephrosene had not finished.

‘I saw one of them afterwards, though. Vassos called him in. He had another task for him.’

I froze. ‘Recently?’ I did not hide the urgency in my voice. ‘Did you see this Bulgar recently?’