high forehead; and long, grey-flecked dark curls. But he was also just as clearly a man above all men. His entire carriage as he sat bespoke stature and confidence, his red-booted feet flat upon the floor, his shoulders square and chest erect, his hands set in his lap with the fingertips lightly touching. Haraldr had grown up in royal courts, and he knew the importance of a king’s sheer physical presence in maintaining the respect and fealty of his subjects. But he knew just as well that this mysterious aura of command was not as simple as donning silk robes or projecting a fine masculine swagger. It was something in the eyes, an intangible yet undeniable quality that left no question of a man’s mastery of both himself and those around him. Haraldr had seen this look before, and he had learned to discern men who pretended to have it and did not. And what he saw in this Emperor’s black, chasm-deep eyes was all he needed to know; they were somehow infinitely sorrowful yet terrifyingly obdurate, the shafts to some unshakeable resolve. This Emperor was no puppet; even a man like Mar would be but a toy to him.
The Emperor spoke several sentences in an even, deep, yet natural voice that did not turgidly solicit respect, as did the exhortations of so many weak leaders, but simply projected keenness and innate authority. The Grand Interpreter translated, maintaining much of the Emperor’s original inflection.
‘Your father greets you, Haraldr Nordbrikt, and applauds your resourcefulness in dealing with the plague of Saracen pirates who have disrupted our maritime commerce. There were some who did not welcome you when you first came to our environs, but his Imperial Majesty has seen to it that your enemies now respect you as a true soldier of Christ. Your Father asks if you are now willing to perform a task that will more directly serve his Holy Person.’
Haraldr was almost euphoric in his desire to serve this magnificent man, and yet another region of his mind screamed with confusion. He had burned the body of Asbjorn Ingvarson only yesterday. Had these enemies been chained in hours? And even so, the young Swede’s soul pleaded for revenge. He again saw the monk at the corner of his vision and thought of Mar at his back; it was likely that Asbjorn’s murderer was no more than two steps away.
Haraldr noticed that the High Chamberlain was nodding at him. He broomed his mind by drawing in his breath, then gave his tongue to Odin. ‘Your Imperial Majesty and chosen hand of Kristr, though it is my most passionate desire to serve you in any way I can, your invitation assumes more honour than I am now worthy of. Two nights ago one of the men pledged to my keeping and guidance was slain in a cowardly and villainous manner. Until I avenge this murder I am soiled by a disgrace that renders me unfit to serve a sovereign so glorious as the Emperor of the Romans.’
After the translation the Emperor stared intently at Haraldr; it was everything Haraldr could do to keep from flinching before that lancing gaze. Then the Emperor looked up at the eunuch nearest to him – Haraldr recognized this man as the aged, sad-eyed eunuch who had spoken to him at his first audience – who bent to the Emperor’s ear and began a whispered discussion that lasted perhaps a minute.
The elderly eunuch disappeared through the red curtains behind him while the Emperor studied Haraldr in almost total silence; the seated monk seemed to have difficulty breathing and wheezed slightly. Haraldr also noticed that the seated monk’s robe was rough brown burlap; hadn’t Joannes worn fine black wool?
The eunuch re-emerged and whispered to the Emperor, who nodded and immediately addressed Haraldr.
‘His Imperial Majesty is pleased to tell you that even now the assassin is being interrogated. He has confessed to everything.
You will be able to see the perpetrator when you leave His Majesty’s presence. Will this satisfy the admirable requisites of your honour?’
Haraldr could scarcely believe his ears. He cast his eyes quickly in the direction of the monk. Kristr! He was almost certain that the seated monk was
The Imperial Chamberlain nodded again, and Haraldr gushed praise. ‘Your Imperial Majesty’s pursuit of justice, as swift as the flight of an arrow, makes me all the more eager in my desire to dedicate to you my arm, my allegiance and my life, and the lives and allegiances of the five hundred men I have pledged to lead to glory in the service of the Emperor of the Romans.’ Haraldr’s skin tingled with conviction; he meant these words with all his suddenly unburdened heart.
Haraldr raptly watched the Emperor reply. He thrilled at the eloquence of His Majesty’s speech and imagined himself walking beside him in stately procession. And yet some tiny parcel of Haraldr’s intellect saw something else, even as the rest of his consciousness floated on this dream. What was it? Something about the Emperor, the shape of his cheeks, his lips; where had he seen these features before? But the memory was too fleeting.
‘His Majesty delights to command an arm so strong and yet so obedient. His faith in you is boundless, so he offers you a task that might have exhausted Heracles, and yet he is assured you can perform it.’ The Grand Interpreter went on to describe the pilgrimage to Jerusalem; an entire regiment of the Imperial Army would accompany the Empress and her ladies, but Haraldr and his men would comprise the Empress’s personal bodyguard. It was an honour second only to guarding the person of the Emperor himself.
Haraldr quickly and ardently accepted, and the Emperor rewarded him with an intoxicating, perfect smile. The Emperor began another address, and Haraldr was again transported with devotion. But the Emperor blinked in mid-sentence, stopped, and tipped his head slightly towards the seated monk.
The commotion was immediate. The High Chamberlain glared at Haraldr and made an entirely indecorous whisking motion. Haraldr sensed Mar, still at his back, spring forward. The crushing grip stung his arm, and then Haraldr spun; his heart, now cold lead, slammed against his ribs. No! The ultimate ruse!
Mar’s grip vanished and Haraldr stood outside drawn curtains that seemed to shrink around the Emperor and his party like a crimson silk cocoon. The Grand Interpreter was beside him; he yanked Haraldr’s arm and frantically urged him into the guardhouse. Behind him, Haraldr heard a rustle of brocade, calm whispers, and painful gagging, as if someone had got a bone lodged in his throat. Haraldr’s mind raced. Had someone become ill? Had someone, perhaps even Joannes, sent an assassin to avenge himself on the Emperor? Just when he had thought he knew the heart of the Roman dragon, this. What was happening?
Mar, still inside the curtains, watched with disgust the twitching figure on the floor before him; he reflected that this spectacle was becoming enticingly common. But the Emperor’s disclosure had caught Mar by surprise. Had they really caught the Norseman’s assassin, he wondered, or was this ‘perpetrator’ merely the usual scapegoat to be sacrificed to the absurd notion of Roman justice?
Haraldr scarcely noticed the clicking feet around him. The Topoteretes, one of the eunuchs who had attended the Emperor, and the black-frock interpreter had taken him completely across the palace grounds, past even the huge silver-domed cathedral. Now he looked up at the sheer, round tower that brooded over the entrance to the harbour, a doleful stone shadow against the shimmering harbour beyond. His mind was a tempest of suspicions and fears.
The entrance to the sinister turret was a steel door set into grim, cinereous granite. The Topoteretes spoke to Haraldr; for once John the frog-faced interpreter seemed eager to translate.
‘Do you know this place?’
Haraldr shook his head. The tower was a giant crypt; it even smelled of death.
‘It is called Neorion Tower. Pray to your god that you are never invited to stay the night here.’
Unseen machinery seemed to crank the steel door open. Gloom, wet and decay seeped into the sunlight. As the shadows engulfed him Haraldr felt that he was entering the dark world of spirits.
Two dozen Khazar guards armed with swords stood watch in a perfectly barren room that seemed even darker because of the flickering lamps that could only establish dirty brown penumbrae in the foul pall. A Roman officer approached and inspected passes. Machinery clanked again. Stairs fell from the ceiling.
The Topoteretes led Haraldr and John up the wooden steps and into a narrow, sooty shaft encasing stone stairs that spiralled endlessly up. Oil-lamps in the form of wolves sputtered greasily. At intervals dark steel doors waited next to narrow stone landings. Haraldr could only observe all of this with nightmare acuity; like a man in a dream, his fate was no longer subject to reason or even speculation. It was as if the ascent were actually a journey deep into the Underworld. What demons awaited?
The Topoteretes rapped on steel, and an almost obscured grate slid aside. The entire door wrenched open.
