leggings they wore; no Greek bothered with such things beneath his robe.
‘Lodgings, sirs, lodgings. You are monks, yes, monks of the north. I can help you here. What are you, my friends, what is your tongue?’
The man was short and thin and a tiger’s smile lit up his face. He spoke Latin, which was a rare language in those parts, known only to scholars and those who wished to part them from their money.
The younger of the two monks spoke: ‘We are from Neustria, friend.’
‘I have met many men from there,’ said the man, instantly sliding into French. ‘We have many of your mercenaries here. They are like brothers to me. Please, come with me. I have very good lodgings at a very good price. I will be your guide to Constantinople, your friend in this new Rome.’
‘How much?’
‘See the room and then see what you think. You have money to pay?’
‘We have money.’
‘Come on then.
The young monk glanced at the older one, who lowered his eyes in assent. They followed the little man.
The monks were of different orders, it appeared. They both wore black robes but the younger one had his head tonsured with the familiar circular baldness of the western Church, his hair reduced to a band about his temples. The other, however, had his white hair cut short at the back but left longer on top. A tattoo of a dragon’s head leered from the back of his neck. The con men and thieves of the dockside thought nothing of this — they were used to seeing all sorts on their quay and used to taking their money.
The monks walked, shaking off their sea legs as they passed into the hubbub of the streets, quickly moving out of the broad plaza of the port and towards the tumble of back alleys. The one with the white hair shouldered a rolled blanket, while the younger man carried a bag on his back. At the opening of a narrow alley the monks hesitated.
Their guide reassured them: ‘Don’t worry, friends, this is Constantinople. It is the world’s city and it can frighten the mightiest man, but come, let me guide you. You have a friend here in me. What are your names?’
‘I am Azemar,’ said the young monk, ‘and this is Mauger.’
‘Welcome, then, Azemar and Mauger! Let me take your bags.’
‘You leave our bags,’ said Mauger. His accent was thick, not like the younger monk’s.
‘Very wise, very wise. It’s good to hold on to your valuable things. But you have nothing to fear from me. Come on.’
The two monks exchanged a glance. Mauger put his hand on Azemar’s arm. ‘We have to sleep somewhere.’
They followed the man into the lighthouse quarter, through the root-mass of backstreets that insinuated its way down the hill.
‘The houses are so strange,’ said Azemar. ‘One on top of another. Why do they do that?’
‘They build them up into the air to save space,’ said Mauger. ‘Not all is as it is at home. You may one day think these tall houses as common as any in Francia.’
Azemar crossed himself.
‘Down here.’ The alley would have been dark even on a bright day. It was scarcely wide enough for two people to pass each other.
They went in, the big scholar first, the Greek behind him, the young monk bringing up the rear.
‘I fear I shall never find my way out from here,’ said Azemar.
‘That won’t be a problem.’ The Greek grabbed a knife from his belt and plunged it into the older monk’s back. Screams from the dark and men leaped at them. One bore a club, another just a plank of wood, a third a rough spear.
The knife went through Mauger’s robe with a crack. The Greek stepped back, his eyes wide as he looked down at his shattered blade.
Mauger span and punched the robber hard in the face, a pulverising blow that collapsed him limp as a coshed eel to the cobbles. Azemar stepped back against the wall, quickly crossing himself. Mauger’s thoughts were not on piety. He strode towards their attackers, coming between them and his companion.
The club swung at the monk’s head but too slow. Mauger stepped into the arc of the swing, enveloped the arm that held the weapon, seized the Greek’s throat and drove his head into the wall.
The man slumped lifeless. Mauger didn’t let him go; he charged at the men behind, using the robber as a shield to block a swinging blow from the plank of wood. The monk threw the dead man into the remaining two robbers and followed him in, smashing another hideous punch into the face of the first, dropping him to the stones. The final man let his spear fall and fled, but Mauger took a small axe from his belt, hidden beneath his robes, and hurled it through the gloom of the narrow street. It caught the robber on the back of the head and sent him flailing to the floor. Then Mauger was on him, wrapping his arms around the man’s head, pulling and twisting to break his neck.
Azemar lowered his arms from around his head, where he’d put them like a young boy anticipating a blow from his father. ‘You’ve killed them all.’ His tone was flat, as if he was commenting his comrade looked well that day.
Mauger dropped the dead robber and stood up, offering no reply.
‘Four is an impressive tally.’ Azemar moved forward to the first body to inspect it. He felt for a pulse but there was none.
‘They were not warlike men and they were surprised to meet resistance. Any of Duke Richard’s warriors could have done it,’ said Mauger.
‘They looked warlike enough from where I was standing.’ The young man moved on to the next corpse, checking that too.
‘It’s easy to look warlike,’ said Mauger, ‘but to be it is harder work. A sword is put into the true warrior’s hand on the day he is born. Such men as we are not to be bested by vagabonds.’
Already curious people watched them, the adults too wary to come near, children running to examine the bodies at their feet.
‘You didn’t use a sword.’ Azemar checked the remaining robbers for signs of life. None. He crouched and muttered a prayer over the dead men.
Mauger shrugged. Then he crouched beside Azemar and spoke quietly to him, wary of being overheard. ‘Better to be thought a hardy monk than a warrior, if word of this spreads. These Greeks who call themselves Romans are famous for their spies, and the fewer men who know our purpose the safer we will be.’ He picked up his roll of bedding from the ground and hoisted it to his shoulder. ‘We’ll save the sword for times of greater need.’
‘What might constitute greater need than being attacked by four armed men?’
The warrior, for he was a warrior, leaned down to the monk’s ear and whispered, ‘The need to cut off the head of the scholar Loys. Now let’s move.’
Azemar got to his feet. ‘He stabbed you. I thought you were dead.’
Mauger patted his side, which chinked like a purse full of coins. ‘A wise man wears his hauberk in new company,’ he said. ‘So my father told me.’
The young scholar looked down at the bodies. The man the warrior had punched first was unrecognisable. His nose and mouth were almost as one, a bloody crater.
‘Did you know that was going to happen?’
‘In these places it’s always a possibility.’
‘You seem to relish hurting people. Is it the same with everyone from the old country?’
‘My country is your country now. I am a Norman. I left my old life behind me when I took my new name and learned your language.’
‘You got off the boat from the north six months ago. You are a Viking to your bones. They love to kill and plunder.’
‘My feelings about what I do don’t matter. I have a duty to oppose my enemies and those of my lord.’
‘Does Loys deserve his fate?’
‘The end is the same if he deserves it or not. Duke Richard has commanded he will have his daughter back and the scholar will die.’
