The mosaic of shadows

‘Because he is a coward,’ Baldwin spluttered. ‘Because he knows too well the strength of Frankish arms against his rabble of eunuchs and catamites.’

‘Silence!’ barked Godfrey. The wind snapped at the great white banner with its blood-red cross which the herald carried behind him. ‘I never sought this battle, even when the king sent his mercenaries to attack us in our camp. For two days I have submitted to your demands, Baldwin, and the gates have not opened as you promised they would.’

‘Nor will they open,’ I pressed. ‘The Emperor has survived your plots, and will destroy you from the comfort of his walls if you do not abandon the battle now.’

Baldwin’s eyes were black with hate, deeper than the depths of Sheol, but his brother was unmoved.

‘I will call back my army,’ said Godfrey, ‘if the Emperor will allow me to pass on to the Holy Land, where I have ever sought to go. There have been enough. . delays.’

‘He will not let you pass without the oath,’ I reminded him. ‘But I am not the man to argue that with you. He will send an embassy to your camp tonight. You would be wise to let them approach unharmed.’

Godfrey nodded, and without a word of farewell turned his horse back towards his captains on the hill. The company who had surrounded us fell in behind him, and I saw several galloping down the slope to take the news to their army.

Baldwin, though, did not move away. ‘I do not know your name, Greekling,’ he hissed, ‘but I know there is no proof to a word you have said.’

‘Your brother’s response gives me proof enough.’ I sensed Sigurd raise his axe a little beside me, and hoped he would be quick enough if Baldwin succumbed to the desire so plain on his face. For the moment, though, the Frank saved his violence for his words.

‘My brother is a coward to match your king. Retreat and delay are his only strategies.’

‘Then he is a wiser man than you.’

Baldwin’s spear twitched. ‘As wise as a Greek?’ He sneered. ‘Even if I had found this cruel little monk, and turned his murderous thoughts against his king, do you think that he alone could have opened your city? Do you think that I told him when the Emperor might walk within bowshot, or admitted him to the secret doors of the palace? Would he have assumed the throne when the Emperor was dead? Would I have even imagined turning my army against the city unless there were men inside — men of power and stature — who invited me?’ He gave a savage laugh at my stunned confusion, but before I could speak he had stabbed his spear into the monk’s broken corpse, so deep that it stuck in the mud beneath, and kicked his horse away.

‘Assume the throne?’ I repeated numbly. A terrible panic broke over me, choking my trembling limbs. ‘So there is an enemy. .’

Sigurd’s words echoed my own. ‘. . in the palace.’

The wind roared against us as we galloped across the plain, ducking our heads close against the horses’ manes and crouching in our stirrups to smooth our path. The barbarian army was in full retreat now, straggling back towards what remained of their camp. The weariness of failure was all about them, and none troubled us as we skirted their flank, racing towards the palace gate. I scarcely noticed them. One name alone was fixed in my mind, a looming horror of what he might purpose and the chaos which would ensue if he did. Several times my thoughts grew too terrible, and in frustration I kicked my unfortunate mount all the harder.

‘Look.’ They were Sigurd’s words, brought back to me on the wind, and I snatched my eyes from the ground before me to look further ahead. We were nearing the walls — I could see the black scorches where the barbarians had tried to burn the gate, the spent arrows and bodies littering the field. Some I recognised as cataphracts, great rents hacked into their armour, but most were Franks.

‘At the gates,’ Sigurd called, indicating with his fist. I looked, and for a second thought I would be pitched from my saddle, so slack did I slump. The gates had opened, and a great column of soldiers was marching forth: not stretcher bearers or gravediggers come for the fallen, but a full legion of Immortals arrayed for battle. Some of their out-riders broke ranks to spur towards us, but Sigurd waved his Varangian axe in the air and they slowed, hailing us with urgent shouts.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘The Emperor gave orders that you should hold at the walls. The barbarians are broken, and you will only antagonise them by appearing in such force.’

‘We mean to do more than antagonise them,’ barked one, an officer. ‘The Emperor is dying, and we are commanded to rout the barbarians in their retreat. Against our cavalry, they will be like wheat in the harvest.’

‘Does the Sebastokrator command that?’ A great emptiness swelled within me: I had failed. The Emperor would die, and with him all hopes of peace with Franks, Turks, even among the Romans themselves.

But the officer shook his head. ‘The Sebastokrator remains at the Regia gate, I think, waiting with the Varangians. He has given no orders that I have heard.’

‘Then who has. .?’

‘The chamberlain, or regent as he soon will be. The eunuch Krysaphios.’

It was as well Sigurd could speak, for I was struck dumb. He pulled off his helmet and stared hard at the Immortal officer. ‘Do you recognise me, Diogenes Sgouros?’

Though there was not an inch of his body not cased in steel armour, the Immortal still seemed to cringe. ‘You are Sigurd, captain of the Varangians.’

‘Do you doubt my loyalty to the Emperor?’

‘Never.’ Sgouros’s voice was fainter now. ‘But the Emperor is dying and. .’

‘Dying is not dead.’ Sigurd rested his axe on the pommel of his saddle. ‘Do you remember the legend of the Emperor who feigned death to test the loyalty of his men?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember what he did to those who failed him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then unless you wish a similar fate, Diogenes, draw up your company here and do not move one pace nearer the barbarians until I or the Emperor himself bring word that it pleases him you do so. Do you understand?’

Sgouros’s helmet seemed fastened too tight under his chin: he struggled to breathe. ‘But. .’

‘If you fail, even witlessly, there will be a terrible vengeance,’ Sigurd warned. ‘And not the vengeance of the Komneni, too quick to forgive their enemies, but the vengeance of Sigurd, who has never yet forgotten a wrong. Will you risk that to prick at the heels of a few broken barbarians?’

The throne in the great hall of the new palace was empty, the only clear space in the room. Every general and courtier must have had word of the Emperor’s wounds and rushed to stake their place in the succession — or to pray for his healing, as they doubtless later protested — for Sigurd and I could barely pry them far enough apart to push ourselves through. I searched desperately for Krysaphios, trying to pick out one sumptuous head among the golden throng, but it was Sigurd, with his height, who saw him first. He was standing near the throne in a circle of nobles, speaking pointedly and forcefully, though his words were lost in the din. His eyes darted over the surrounding faces, seeking out disagreement or disloyalty, and he did not see our approach until Sigurd pulled away a whimpering acolyte and loomed over him.

‘What did you do with the Immortals?’ Sigurd demanded. ‘Why, after the barbarians had surrendered did you order our cavalry to destroy them, when it was the Emperor’s dearest wish that they should be spared?’

I saw Krysaphios glance to his side and tilt his head a little, as if beckoning someone. Guards, I guessed. ‘The Emperor is dying, and whoever succeeds him will rely greatly on his chamberlain as he accustoms himself to rule. If you disagree with my policy out of sentiment for a weak-willed fool, whose nerve failed in our darkest hour, you would do well to reconsider. I will have need of strong warriors when I serve the new Emperor, but only those who obey.’

The circle surrounding him had eased a little, for many were clearly uncomfortable with our talk and uncertain where to display their loyalties. I tried to discomfort them further. ‘Did you ally yourselves with the barbarians from the beginning, Krysaphios? Did you really mean to give our empire over to their tyranny, until you saw just now that they were defeated?’

Krysaphios’ cheeks swelled out like a serpent’s. ‘That is treason, Demetrios Askiates, and you will not escape its penalty this time. Nor will you have even the consolation of righteousness when your daughters are screaming in my dungeon, for none have worked against the barbarians more diligently than I. Would I give over the triumph of our civilisation to a snivelling race of animals, scarce fit to tup in the gutters of this city? I will be remembered as he