Tom Harper - The mosaic of shadows

‘The blood is hard,’ I said. ‘This was done some hours ago, maybe even last night. Has no-one been in here since then?’

‘He was to go without food all day. To spur his appetite for answering questions.’ Not even this horror could take the sting completely from Krysaphios’ voice.

‘No-one entered after your lordship left him,’ said the gaoler. And the Varangians guarded him all night.

I turned to Krysaphios. ‘It seems you were the last one to see him alive, then. After Sigurd and I had left for the monastery.’

‘Not the last, Demetrios.’ The eunuch’s eyes were cold. ‘Surely a man of your powers can see that unless he was a most accomplished acrobat, the Bulgar did not do this to himself. And the weapon which did this is gone. Whatever you say to the contrary, gaoler, someone has been in here.’

‘Someone who wanted to ensure that the Bulgar could betray no more secrets,’ I agreed. ‘And someone who wanted to send us a message.’

‘A message? Other than that he wanted the Bulgar’s silence?’ Krysaphios was impatient.

‘A message that the palace is no defence, that he — whoever he is — can strike wherever he pleases. If he had wanted to do it in stealth, he could have taken the Bulgar down from his chains and left the knife beside him, to make it seem he had killed himself. Whoever did this walked in under the eyes of the guards. And wants us to know he can do so again.’

Krysaphios turned to the Varangian who stood in the doorway. ‘Find your captain and have him double the Emperor’s guard tonight. Then search the palace grounds — it may be that this assassin is still hiding in our midst.’

I had my doubts, but kept them silent. ‘What about the boy?’ I prompted. ‘If our enemies feared for what the Bulgar might reveal, how much more must they worry about the boy?’

‘Sigurd is keeping the watch at the monastery, and has more men than he needs for the task. You may join him if you wish.’ Krysaphios moved towards the low-arched door. ‘I must tend to the Emperor.’

‘I will go home.’ It had been two days since I had seen my daughters, and though there had been other nights when I did not return, it always troubled them. And me. ‘Tomorrow I will see what further mysteries the boy can reveal.’

‘If he lives. Remember, Demetrios, we do not have much time to untangle this conspiracy. Two weeks before the danger is upon us.’ Krysaphios gave the dangling body a final, searching look. ‘Perhaps even less.’

Still I did not know what looming evil might force this urgency. But if it could draw such a tremor into the voice of Krysaphios, the eunuch who slept beside Emperors and guided nations, then I knew that I, too, feared it.

My daughters were uncommonly restrained when I returned home: Helena was in her bed and would only mumble when I looked in on her, while Zoe prepared me some cold vegetables with inconsequential chatter. At breakfast the next morning, however, I felt the full force of Helena’s censure.

‘You neglect your duties as a father,’ she complained. ‘What if a Norman marauder had come in the night and snatched me away? What if I had used your absence to elope with the blacksmith’s son?’

‘What of it? You didn’t. And my first duty is to put bread in our bellies.’ I chewed noisily on my breakfast to emphasise how seriously I took my obligations.

‘If you are never here to protect me, you could at least trouble yourself to find me a man who will.’

‘I’d rather have the bread.’ Zoe bit into her own slice, and winked at me across the table. I tried to force a stern look, to rebuke her for antagonising her sister, but I fear I lacked conviction.

‘The spice-seller’s aunt came to visit yesterday, to discuss her nephew,’ continued Helena imperiously. ‘And the day before. I think she despairs of ever finding you.’

‘She may never come again,’ Zoe added. Her face was solemn. ‘Then you’ll be a spinster forever, Helena, condemned all your life to sit at your loom and weave. Like Penelope.’

I swallowed the crumbs in my throat. I knew that the spice-seller’s family had been making enquiries after Helena, and that I should have approached his mother to bargain for her dowry, but there rarely seemed to be the time for it. ‘If the spice-seller’s aunt comes again and I am away, you have my permission to agree a dowry with her.’

‘And what if I agree something extravagant? What if she claims her nephew to be the most expensive gold can buy, and I acquiesce?’

‘Then,’ I said, wiping my mouth, ‘you will be grateful that I worked so hard I could afford it.’

There are men I know who eat separately from their womenfolk; many authorities, indeed, damn the practice of commingled meals as an invitation to strife and discord. If I heeded them I would be lonely indeed, but there are times when I wonder if I would benefit from a greater respect for tradition.

At the very least, though, it prepares me for encounters with argumentative women. Such as I found when I reached the courtyard of the monastery of Saint Andrew.

‘You cannot see the boy, and you certainly cannot remove him.’ Anna, the doctor, stood with her hands folded across her chest and her feet set apart. Her hair was tied back under a plain linen scarf — more modest than I had seen before — but she still wore her green dress. The silken belt rode high on her hips and plunged in a ‘v’ between them, drawing my eye immoderately low, and it was that which unsettled me as much as her uncompromising tone.

‘Is he near death?’ That did not bear contemplation.

She tossed her head. ‘Do you have so little faith in my skills, Demetrios? Do you think a woman cannot — or should not — exercise the gift of healing?’

‘Women hold the gift of life; I should think healing is a paltry business to master after that.’

‘Your Keltic friend does not think so.’ She gestured to Sigurd, who stood with three of his men by the door glaring at every monk and novice who passed. ‘I have heard him talking.’

‘He’s a barbarian. But if you have healed the boy, I need to speak with him.’ I had determined that I would seek out the villa in the forest, where the monk had trained the boy. ‘Is he fit to ride a horse?’

Anna stared at me with open scorn. ‘Two days ago he was almost hacked to pieces; today you want to know if he can ride a horse? If he tries hard, he can just drink a little thin soup. There is only one being who could heal him as quickly as you want — and I have the monks in the chapel begging His intervention.’

‘Then at least let me talk to the boy.’

‘You can talk to him when he’s recovered.’

I swung round. It was not Anna who had spoken, but Sigurd; he had ambled down from his station by the door and was eyeing me with disapproval.

‘Sigurd?’ His intervention caught me unguarded. ‘Yesterday you threatened to drag Anna to the dungeons because she would not let us see the boy. I thought you were as eager as I to finish this business.’

Sigurd conceded nothing, did not even blush. ‘Thomas is too valuable to be pushed beyond himself, Demetrios. Our task is urgent — so urgent that we cannot risk losing him.’

I scowled, for I did not think he had decided on all this for himself. And I did not like the thought of Anna and he conspiring together against me. It made me feel betrayed. And, unjustifiably, jealous.

It would have been hard enough to haggle my way past Anna, for there was something in her manner which deterred all argument; against her and Sigurd I was impotent.

‘I will return tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you will have managed to work your cure. Maybe even as well as a man,’ I added, spitefully.