messengers, plainly dressed in dark soldier’s attire.
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. Immediately.’
‘I will arrange it.’
Isais left.
The chamberlain went to a side room where he kept his clothes, including his campaign gear. It was plain and worn, and no one would think that odd. In the field he emulated the emperor in dressing like a common soldier. He took his sword and checked the folds of his padded jacket. Stuffed into a pocket in the interior was a mask of black cloth — like the Arabs wore in the desert — with no more than slits for eyes. He picked up a tight-fitting desert hood, white to reflect the sun and proof against grit and sand. He pulled his horse cloak around him.
The door opened; there was no knock.
Two men accompanied Isais, again dressed plainly as guards.
‘The way is clear,’ Isais said.
The chamberlain lowered his eyes in acknowledgement and walked out of his chamber, down to a room where there was a secret staircase that led to the bowels of the palace and from there out through the kitchens to a back door to the outside. They encountered no one, Isais as good as his word. The chamberlain put on the desert hood and stepped out into the street. From here it was two hours to the hillside, so they would have to move fast.
25
Galti got Loys what he wanted by the second day of waiting — four good Varangians who were not giants and so didn’t stand out among the Greeks. They would never pass for natives of the city close up but, at a distance and in dim light, they’d invite no attention. The deal was done on a promise and an oath in Norse — the Vikings said Loys spoke their tongue so he would know the value of a vow. The Vikings wore their sea cloaks, stained and eaten by salt, and covered their heads against the rain with close-fitting caps or cowls. It was dark and the weather miserable. They would pass well enough, thought Loys.
‘Chance of a scrap?’ said one — a stocky youth, nearly a man, handsome but for his missing teeth. His name was Vandrad.
‘Yes, but we need to be careful,’ said Loys. ‘We’re going to watch one of the Greeks’ rituals. I want to kidnap one of them and we may have to follow him back into his camp to do it.’
He quickly made his way up the hill, the men following him. All the black lambs had gone from the camp. Up on the hillside torches floated in the murk — nine or ten ascending in the distance.
‘There,’ he said.
The men trudged on over the sucking ground. The torches were very faint and Loys had no certainty they belonged to the people he sought. But he recalled what he had read — that the ceremonies of the goddess were often conducted by torchlight. They were planned with strict attention to detail, for fear of invoking the goddess’s anger.
The night was black. All perspective was gone: the fires and lamps of the camp seemed to hang in space, glowing like odd moons. One of the Varangians took a torch as he passed a tent and no one came out to complain that he had. Ahead the lights they followed were will-o’-the-wisps. Loys almost laughed to himself. He’d been worried about being recognised; they would be practically invisible in the gloom.
From ahead he heard a keyless grumble: dogs howling and moaning on the hill — a lot of dogs.
Loys lost sight of the torches and began to think they had taken a wrong turn, but a track was under their feet and they stuck to that. It was impossible to judge how far they had gone. Only the ground beneath his feet told Loys he was not moving through a murky ocean and he almost imagined sea serpents looming from the mist, the blind grey monsters of childish nightmares.
The going became steep. They still saw no lights ahead but, denied another reference, they headed towards the sound of the dogs. Then they crested a ridge. Lights, lots of lights. Other torches joined those they had followed, coming up a track from another side of the city, while others still descended out of the night.
‘On,’ said Loys.
The Varangian nearest smiled at him. ‘Nair,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The world of the dead,’ said a voice at his shoulder.
Now they climbed over rocks — big boulders. It took all Loys’ concentration not to slip and break an ankle. The howling and grumbling of the dogs became louder, and under it they heard a murmur of conversation. People were assembling.
Loys kept going, the Varangians at his back. Something moved by his side. A small dog was leaping from rock to rock and, in doing so, brushed his hand.
‘One torch extinguished. We need twenty-seven; there are twenty-eight,’ said a voice. Loys took the Varangian’s torch and threw it down into a cleft between the rocks.
‘Start!’ Another voice, from Loys’ right.
‘Why are you here?’ The voice was strong and commanding and Loys almost felt inclined to answer it.
‘To stand at the gateway of death,’ forty or fifty unseen speakers replied.
‘Why do you stand at the gateway of death?’
‘To offer homage to the lady of the gateway.’
‘What do you seek for this homage?’
‘Blessing and protection from evil.’
‘She that is Propulaia.’
‘Standing before the gate.’
‘She that is Chthonia.’
‘Lady of the earth, the lower earth and the dark places of the earth.’
‘She that is Apotropaia.’
‘Protector and guardian.’
‘Accept our sacrifice and hear our prayer.’
A lamb’s bleat turned to a shriek. The dogs went wild, barking, baying and howling. Still Loys saw very little beyond the soft glow of the torches.
A chant pulsed through the mist. Loys gripped his knife. The voices surrounded him.
‘Up out of darkness and subvert all things
With aimless plans, I will call and you may hear
My holy words since terrible destiny
Is ever subject to you. Thrice bound goddess,
Set free yourself, come raging
Plunged in darkness with sorrows fresh,
Grim-eyed, shrill-screaming.
Come.’
Loys shivered. The chant broke into many separate choruses, gabbling on all sides.
‘In my power I hold you.’
‘Your thrice-locked door.’
‘Her burning hearth, her shadow.’
‘One morsel of flesh.’
‘Blood of a turtledove.’
‘Hair of a virgin cow.’
‘The bond of all necessity is sundered
And the sun’s light is hidden.’
