‘And if it is you, Haraldr,’ said Halldor, ‘together we will summon every carrion bird in Serkland.’
‘No,’ said Haraldr. ‘That honour is too great for me if I have led you into this. If it is me who is to be attacked, you must live to lead my pledge-men to safety. I know that the Romans have enemies nearby. If you can fight your way out of here, you could parlay with them. My pledge-men may yet see their homes again, with little thanks to their foolish leader. Besides, I have learned an interesting tactic from the Romans: how to bait a snare. And perhaps tonight by offering myself as the bait I may win something more valuable than all the Roman gold we have acquired.’ He paused and looked at his two stem-faced comrades. ‘I may win some answers.’
The white-robed figure emerged like a ghost from the dark hall. Symeon was indeed as indefatigable as a spirit. It seemed as if he could not take the next step, and yet day and night he was there, attending to the smallest detail. The wraithlike eunuch swished to Haraldr’s side. ‘Mother wish to know guard relieved,’ he croaked in a condescending bastardization of good Greek.
‘You may tell my mother yes,’ replied Haraldr as fluently as he could. He nodded to Ulfr, and the grim-faced Norseman followed Symeon into the Hall.
Halldor fixed Haraldr with his implacable stare. ‘Well,’ he said with a faint smile, ‘I have no lady. I guess I will have to spend this night with my sword in my arms.’ He turned to walk away. ‘Oh. In the morning I think I need to tell you some more things the wise trader must know.’ As casually as ever, Halldor vanished through the gate.
Haraldr shook his head in amazement. When the Valkyrja came for him, Halldor would ask them to spread their legs. His bravado bolstered by his friend’s insouciance, Haraldr began to reason where he could best place his snare. He listened to the gurgling fountains. A two-week-old moon silvered the dancing droplets. Here. Of course. Symeon already knew where he was; no doubt others did as well. Wait here and they would come to him. He sat on the damp tile enclosure of the fount. To come behind him, they would have to splash through the water, a variation in the night’s music that he could easily detect.
The dog barked again, more distantly. Lost in this ancient world, Haraldr wondered if the gods had a purpose. Had they spared him at Stiklestad, along the Dnieper, among the Saracen corpses, only that he should die here tonight? That could not be. He was part of their plan. Haraldr felt a strange power surround him in the night, wrapping him like the layers of fur that had armoured the terrible Hound. He was destiny’s instrument. And when fate called him to the last battle, he would come with his sword in hand.
He did not wait for long. Heels clicked on marble and the white robe came into the light. Leo. He reached down and handed Haraldr a tiny slip of paper. The eunuch turned quickly and vanished with his bounding step, heedless to Haraldr’s plaintive ‘Leo!’
The message was in Greek. Apparently the conspirators could not risk asking Gregory to write the runes; he might have warned Haraldr. That was obviously why the Empress had wished to know of the bond between the interpreter and Haraldr. Haraldr studied the brief message. The translation was quite simple, especially since he had seen the name written before. ‘Come to Hecate. Now.’
Haraldr had to compliment the Romans on the elaborate construction of their trap. The girl as the lure, the perfect place for an assassination. He removed his sword and set it by the fountain, then raised his robe and snugged his dagger into his boot. What could be more disarming than a man walking unarmed to his own execution?
Daphne’s shattered face was pearl like in the moonlight. It was bright enough for Haraldr to find the path that turned into the grove easily. Then the ivy bowers closed overhead and the light faded. He walked slowly ahead and almost collided with one of the columns. The inscription was unreadable now, but the impenetrable void just beneath Haraldr’s feet was proof that this was Hecate.
Haraldr descended into the earth, carefully counting each step, his fingers darting against the damp, increasingly slimy wall to maintain his orientation; it seemed to him that if he lost contact with the wall, he would not know up from down -much less right from left – in this inky oblivion. After an eternity he reached the hundredth step. At one hundred and sixty, he would pause and listen for his murderer.
One hundred and forty-eight. A noise! Something brushed past his leg and scurried up. It was not relief that caused Haraldr to shudder. The
One hundred and fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. Haraldr waited for his heart to cease echoing off the coffin-like walls. He listened. Nothing, even to ears strengthened by blindness. Nothing. Hecate was as still as death.
Another five steps and Haraldr listened again. Four more. Haraldr’s skin crawled and yet he could sense nothing, even this close to fate’s answer. Then the light of realization dawned.
Haraldr pulled himself up, his veins ice. He had fallen three, four steps. He reached ahead. Nothing. No stone. The barrier he had felt that very afternoon was gone. Very slowly he descended another step. Gone. Haraldr paused on a threshold of fate. Up or down? Then something told him that the beast he could not run from waited below.
At two hundred and fifty steps the walls closed in. Haraldr had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Then there were no walls, no steps. He walked forward and smacked into a wall. He ran his hand over the slimy surface. He looked down at his feet, and he could see them, vague shadows against other shadows. And the stairs were to his right. Down he went, the light coming up to meet him like a winter dawn; he was almost able to see each step before he set his foot on it. At three hundred and twenty-five steps he squeezed through an even narrower passage than the one before and turned again in a grim vestibule lit by a flickering from below.
The last forty steps were straight down. Carved pilasters marked the entrance to the shrine. The single lamp within the dark-walled chamber was set just above the doorway. The sputtering flame flicked light over a tile basin filled with water. The water was covered with a pale mist. No, steam; the air was warm, almost as sultry as a steam bath.
The statue of Hecate stood on a low platform behind the basin. It seemed as if she had been draped with a real robe of fine black fabric, for only her delicate alabaster ankles and feet showed. Her head was bowed, her hair painted so lifelike that it might have been as real as her cloak.
The statue moved. Haraldr stooped to pull his dagger from his boot, never taking his eyes from the startling motion. He backed away, seeking the corner to protect his back and flanks, if there were others.
The robe slid from the shoulders and the statue stood revealed in flawless alabaster, except for the dark nipples and sable pelt between the legs. The face turned up. The lips were red and the eyes blue, even in this light. Haraldr reeled from the blow he had never expected. Maria was his Valkyrja, her white skin drawing him on into the last black night of his mortality.
She stood still, hair shimmering, piercing azure eyes unblinking, almost armoured in her nakedness. Haraldr took a tentative step forward, and then his boots were wet, and he was stumbling through the warm water. She still beckoned, her blood-red lips faintly parted. He stood, dumb, disbelieving the perfection of her body. The full woman’s breasts, the erect areolae, the unflawed curve of her hip, the glistening pelt. He stepped closer, rapt at the flaring of her chiselled nose. He did not see the knife until she had already raised it from her thigh.
He was powerless, now refusing to believe that such beauty could be wedded to death. He watched the heaving of her breast as her arm shot out; there was a faint blue vein beneath the mercurous ivory surface of her skin. The blade flickered against his throat. She held him with her eyes. He remembered the last time he had seen Olaf’s eyes, the sense that all time had fallen into that void. It was as if his fate were within that abyss, waiting for him to find it.
The knife moved swiftly. When she cut his collar open, she nicked his neck and the warm blood trickled. Never blinking, she ripped downward, slicing the front of his robe open. Her arm fell wearily, as if she had freed herself of a great burden, and the knife clattered on stone. Her breasts rose with a violent inhalation and she attacked the incisions in his garments, ripping at silk and linen. When she had exposed his almost immediate erection, she knelt and pulled off his boots. Then her face was above his, her hands searing velvet claws on his shoulders as she lifted herself. Like an adder, she brought the point of her nose towards his. He could no longer look at the blue fire in her eyes. Her smell seemed to drown him and his steel member reached for her. She settled, and he felt the fiery point of wetness. She held there, tantalizing, pulling his hair hard, pulling his head forward.
She came down slowly, a consummate torturer. If he arched upwards she drew back, now raking his neck with her nails. He placed his hands beneath her tensing thighs and could feel her wetness spilling onto the soft
