He came into a larger space beneath a dome where people lay all around on beds and matressess. These were of a lower station to the men he had just left in the room.
At his feet was a mosaic — a depiction of a woman drawing a bow, a crescent moon above her head.
He offers the sacrifice to the fates.
A doctor — a short man with a Greek beard — came wandering towards him. He wore a robe similar to Snake in the Eye’s but in dark blue.
‘You’re awake.’
‘Where is my sword?’
‘We have good care of it.’
‘I’d like it now.’
‘I think you need to rest a little. How long have you been awake?’
‘Where is my sword?’
Snake in the Eye grabbed a hank of the man’s tunic at the chest.
‘You’re not in a fit state to leave,’ said the doctor.
Eternally reborn, eternally sacrificed.
‘I am a warrior of the north, no soft southern man am I. Get me my sword.’
His tone was insistent enough for the doctor to give in. ‘Follow me.’
Snake in the Eye was led through a series of arches, through ranks of sick people. The place seemed ready to overflow. Few bore signs of injury but many sat weeping on the floor, some calling out that the final day was upon them and Christ was returning to his kingdom.
‘You’ll excuse the crush,’ said the doctor. ‘The sky has convinced men they are sick.’
Snake in the Eye followed him to a door.
‘Wait.’
The doctor went inside and after a few minutes returned with Snake in the Eye’s purse and sword. Snake in the Eye snatched them up.
‘We’ve deducted your bill from your purse,’ said the doctor but Snake in the Eye was already on his way outside.
He emerged onto a high hill overlooking the city. Was it night or day? He couldn’t tell. The sky was dark but with a strange metalled glow, not night or day but something between. Below him like a huge pale serpent was the long arched bridge, the water road. To his left was the massive dome of the great church.
The gods in their schemes…
The tale seemed like a fly buzzing through his head, and to sit and tell it seemed to be the best way of getting it out. He would wander the streets and find an audience for his story. Perhaps he would kill the audience when he’d finished it. It would be a fine tale to hear as your last. If only he could recall it. The story was annoyingly incomplete in his mind, the words he remembered like the top of a mountain glimpsed through mist. In moments the mist would clear, revealing glimpses of the bulk beneath.
‘And Loki loved her, and knew death in one lifetime was a small price to pay…’
Death in one lifetime. Such a small price. Behind him he heard someone wailing, calling on God to take them and spare them such misery. He looked back at the hospital. If he let his thoughts drift, the building became insubstantial, unreal. More solid by far seemed the runes, bright like floating light, that turned in the air around him. He could feel them, one like an ice wind, another like a bristle of thorns, a third like a drowning current enticing him to unseen depths. They had always been in him, he knew, and the curse had kept them from him. He put out his hand as if to touch them and he saw the garden by the riverbank, the wall full of candles.
He thought to blow them out. But not everyone who asked for the gift of death would receive it. He would not kill cowards, only brave and worthy opponents like the faith-strong worshippers in the church. Yes, he wanted more like that. He took out his sword. First he would test himself in the old way. He longed to feel his enemy’s life blood spurting over his sword hand, to look closely into the man’s face as he died. There would be time enough to blow out candles. He needed a more feeling murder first, a death of blood, of hot, expiring breath, of terrified eyes and grasping hands. After that he would begin to get even with the Roman soldiers — Greeks as they truly were. He’d seen the look the Hetaereian guard had given him when he’d left the emperor’s tent. The man would pay for his scorn, him and all his friends. He would leave them dead in piles.
Snake in the Eye walked down the hill towards the city. He sensed the lives of its inhabitants spread out before him like twenty thousand fireflies flickering in the dark, the wavering lights of their mortal existence as real to him as those of home and hearth.
34
Loys entered the great church. The night was dark and candles had been lit, intensifying the gold of the altar, turning the air to umber and the pillars to the shining trunks of magical trees.
A carpet of dead — men, women and even some children — sprawled on the floor. Monks moved among them, intoning prayers.
‘Any alive?’ he called.
‘None,’ said a monk.
Loys drew in a breath and touched the hand of a merchant who lay facing the altar, gaudy in his yellow silks. Freezing. Loys sat down on a bench. His mind was utterly blank before this scene of devastation.
‘Your explanation?’
It was the messenger service captain, a thin man with the face of an angry rat.
‘You’re the security service; let’s have yours.’ He responded by reflex rather than thought, his long inquisition having made aggression a habit when dealing with Byzantine officials.
‘You are charged with the protection of the empire from magical attack. Doesn’t look like you’re doing a very good job from where I’m standing.’
‘You’re charged with the protection of the empire from everything. Don’t make this my fault.’
Loys was ashamed to be squabbling in such a way in front of so many dead but he wasn’t going to let this bastard stick the blame on him. His mind was full of strategies about how he could claim to have warned this might happen. He crossed himself. What was he becoming? Think of the dead, Loys, and how this happened, not of watching your own back.
His hand felt the outline of someting inside the little bag he wore at his neck. He realised he hadn’t discarded that pagan stone.
‘Well, it’s your job to have an idea,’ said the captain. ‘The chamberlain will be on his way in a minute so I’d start thinking of something if I were you, because I think he’s going to want to hear it. Personally, I’d also like to know what you were doing at the Varangian camp last week.’
‘I will consider all possibilities,’ said Loys, giving the man a hard look that implied he might be the first to be investigated, ‘but first let’s attend to the matter in hand.’
Styliane’s accusations, what he had heard on the hill, even the chamberlain’s own words when he had commissioned him, telling him his mission was to safeguard ‘great men’, all pointed in one dizzying direction. Some sort of sorcery had taken place and the chamberlain — or someone very close to him — had lost control of it.
Loys walked through the bodies. So many gone at a stroke. Could it be some natural phenomenon? It had happened in God’s house so the worshippers must have provoked his wrath. No diabolic power could hold sway here.
Dead faces stared back at him, like an accusing mob. He had failed to find out what was happening, failed even to make an inroad, and this was the price. Loys felt entirely inadequate to the task. Surely there were greater powers at work here than could be faced down with questions and study. He had to try to explain this, but how?
Trumpets sounded, a drum beat and a voice cried out, ‘Stand back in the name of the emperor for the chamberlain Karas.’
