M. Lachlan: Lord of Slaughter

‘You could do this alone.’

‘No. You will identify the scholar. I want no possibility of a mistake.’

‘It is an evil thing you make me do.’

‘Not so. The scholar is a rebel against his lord and so against God. You are doing Christ’s work.’

‘Or Judas’s. Loys was my friend.’

‘I will shed no tears for him. Is friendship a higher calling than your duty to your lord? Or to your family, whose safety and health depend on our success here? Come on.’ He headed off down the alley.

Azemar recalled the furore at the monastery when it was realised Beatrice and Loys had gone, recalled the duke’s men sweeping through the cloisters, Richard’s boiling rage as he told the abbot he was lucky not to see his abbey burned to the ground.

Luckily for the monks Beatrice had confided to her sister they were sailing for Constantinople. After a few days of pressure the girl told what she knew. The hope of recapturing his daughter took the edge off Richard’s anger as he threw himself into plans to get her back. They’d sought a monk who could identify without question the disobedient scholar. Azemar saw no way to protect Loys but to volunteer for the journey. If he was charged with identifying Loys to Mauger then at least he could warn his friend and give him time to get away.

He’d expected to travel with a company of men and had asked Mauger why Duke Richard had not sent more. ‘It’s an assassination, not an invasion,’ said Mauger. ‘A mighty king rules in Constantinople and he has eyes like God’s. The less notice we draw the better.’

Azemar had toyed with the idea of killing Mauger in his sleep and going on alone. He was not a killer, though. He was a Christian man who couldn’t commit such a sin. Even escape was impossible. Mauger held all their money and kept it close. Azemar wouldn’t get far without silver to speed his journey and the knight would soon be on his trail.

Of course, he’d tried reasoning with Mauger. On the ship he’d put many plans to him.

‘Can you not just say you killed him, say his daughter killed herself with grief when you did? That should satisfy him.’

‘He wants the scholar’s head. I have sworn to deliver it. There is nothing more to say.’

Azemar had directed his future arguments to the gulls and the waves. He knew he had a better chance of success with them. His father had been just such a man — still a Viking and a pagan at heart, despite his new religion and his even newer fancy Frankish manners.

When Azemar knew Mauger would not be moved by argument he decided his best plan was to wait until he actually found Loys. Then he would desert Mauger and warn him.

Azemar looked to the sky. It bore a haze of grey over the blue. He crossed himself, praying they weren’t ready for another soaking like they’d had on the way down. The ship’s pilot had stretched the sail across as shelter and they’d spent nearly two days under driving, windless rain.

He would not betray his friend, he knew that. If he and Mauger didn’t return at all then perhaps Richard would spare Azemar’s family. Mauger was loyal as a dog and would never betray his lord. Only disaster would prevent him from completing his task. So Azemar would have to engineer a disaster.

‘If it must be so, it must. First let’s find somewhere to sleep. I’ve had my fill of being tossed out of my bed by storms and I’m tired enough to drop.’

‘Agreed,’ said Mauger. ‘Let’s go back to the port. Thieves are lazy; only honest men will be left by now. We’ll bed down for the night and then start looking for your friend in the morning.’

He pulled his robe about him and headed out of the dark alley towards brighter, wider streets.

Loys set off on his long walk to the Magnaura. Like many immigrants to the city, he and Beatrice had settled very near to where they’d first entered — the lighthouse gate just north of the aqueduct on the Golden Horn. Scores of people offering lodgings greeted the incoming boats and it was impossible to choose between them. The couple had allowed themselves to be led away by the first man who’d approached them and been lucky he wasn’t a thief or too much of a fraud.

The thicket of backstreets wasn’t too dangerous at that time of day but he was glad to turn into the main street, wide, broad and bright with its splendid granite porches supported by elegant columns, some faded to white, some still in the colours the city’s founders had painted them. No ramshackle and stinking wooden buildings here, nothing crammed or cramped. Loys had been raised in a well-to-do family in Rouen, a cathedral town. But on this road more than any other he was as wide-eyed as a farm boy with straw in his hair — a barbarian, as the Roman natives of the town called him. He liked the feeling, really. All his life he had been the cleverest person he knew, the best read, the most worldly. Here he felt unsophisticated, daunted and naive. It would be a challenge to leave his mark on this city.

He passed soap makers, their stalls smelling of violets and roses, candle makers, linen sellers with their wares laid out in scarlet, blue and white, silk men — their fabrics in vibrant colours too, a flash of gorgeous purple poking from a chest to indicate they served royalty, not that the common people could buy silk of that colour even if they could afford it. Leather workers offered fine belts and boots; swords were arranged on one stall with two small shields above them, looking to Loys like a terrible beast of staring eyes and giant teeth. Wine was on sale, beer and olives, oil and pottery, some in practical fired white earth, some decorated in vivid greens, reds and blues.

Fishmongers declared the quality of their wares, their catch laid out like treasure, iridescent in the cold light. Saddlers and grocers challenged the crowds to find a better price anywhere on Middle Way. Jewellers sat flanked by scowling eunuchs, a bullion dealer stood by his scales, six fully mailed Norman mercenaries around him. They made Loys shiver, though they were not Beatrice’s father’s men, he would have recognised them. Next to the bullion dealer was a row of coin changers, less impressively protected by native Greeks and hard-eyed easterners. Loys longed to take Beatrice here, to buy her jewels to make up for the ones she’d lost to robbers in Montpellier before they’d boarded the ship for Constantinople.

The streets were busy, and he fought against a tide of people heading towards the Golden Gate — the city’s main ceremonial entrance. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked a boy who passed him.

‘The emperor’s back! He’s leading a triumph. He’s got the Varangians with him! Northern giants! They have a savage who attacked him in his tent with them!’

Loys had no time for that, he had to be at his studies.

He pushed on, past the emperor Marcian’s granite column and into the squabble of the Bull Market — where bulls and virtually everything else were on sale. It was less busy than usual but still busier than any other market he had ever attended in his life. He shoved his way through, thinking it the one blessing of poverty that you lacked a rich purse to steal.

From there he went under Theodosian’s Arch, decorated with images of victorious Roman soldiers — still gaudy in yellow, red and pink after all these years — and on down the Middle Way to the Forum of Constantine, where, thank God, the market was closed. He strode past the statue of the Roman emperor who had founded the city, only glancing at the other marvellous bronzes that decorated the wide square. At the exit of the forum were two keystones in the wall in the shape of huge blank-eyed heads, both taller than he was. Their brutal, heavy features stared out with expressions of ancient animosity. They made him shiver. Pagan gods or heroes, he thought, their names now forgotten. Loys saw eternity in their stares and his own life seemed fragile and fleeting.