Siege of Heaven Read online

  The winnowing of combat had begun to separate our sides once more. Pakrad’s men had managed to form a loose cordon that blocked off three sides of the room, forcing us back near the altar and cutting us off from the door. Where was Sigurd? The spear-thrusts were less fierce now, as if our enemies knew we were beaten and were content to prod us back into our pen. They were no less dangerous for that, and I was constantly on my guard, swatting and chopping at the stabbing points. Still they forced us back.

  I saw Sigurd at last, and in my shock was almost spitted by an oncoming spear. He was not among the few Varangians beside me frantically fending off the closing noose: he was lying on the floor behind the line of our enemies, rolling and screaming in a lake of blood.

  An unbidden silence suddenly gripped the bloody chamber. The line of Saracen guards stepped back, keeping their spears angled towards us, while the Varangians and I clustered together and lowered our weapons. There was blood on my hands and my armour – even, when I licked my lips, on my face – but little of it was mine. The coughing of exhausted warriors and the drumming of the rain dinned my ears after the clamour of battle.

  Pakrad stepped forward. He had torn a strip from his cowl and tied it over his shoulder to stem the bleeding, though he had to lean on a spear to stay upright. ‘Surrender now.’

  I spat a bloody wad of phlegm onto the floor. ‘What terms will you offer?’

  That provoked a laugh. ‘Terms? When you are wriggling on the points of my spears, then I will talk of terms. Otherwise, all I offer is that if you surrender, I will spare you – for now.’

  I could see by their faces that the Varangians beside me did not like that. ‘These men would rather die now than have their throats cut in your prison. You must offer them more than that.’

  ‘Would you believe me if I did?’

  Behind Pakrad, Sigurd struggled to raise himself on his elbow. He mumbled something that was too faint to hear, though every man among us knew what he meant. More than anyone, Sigurd wanted to die well: he would not surrender. All the time I had known him he had seemed invulnerable, an animal spirit from one of his boreal legends. Seeing him now left me wanting nothing more than to empty my stomach onto the ground and weep.

  Pakrad had raised his sword. ‘If you do not surrender now, I will kill the wounded first. Then I will finish you one by one. You, Demetrios, will be the last.’

  ‘That is barbaric,’ I muttered.

  ‘It is war.’

  Beside Pakrad, one of his men dangled his sword like a pendulum over Sigurd’s throat. ‘Well?’

  I dropped my sword, pulled my left arm out of my shield straps and let it fall to the ground. Sigurd groaned; the other Varangians looked at me with despising, hatefilled eyes. One of them – a young man named Oswald – could not stand the wound to his pride: he ran towards the line of Pakrad’s men, bellowing a war-cry and lifting his axe to strike. A long spear ran him through before he was within four feet of his enemies. He was lifted clear off the ground by the force of the blow before falling, gurgling, on his back. A second spear finished him with a thrust between his eyes.

  None of the other Varangians had moved to follow him, and none did so now. Whether cowed by his fate or sickened by the waste, they threw down their axes.

  With supreme derision in his moment of triumph, Pakrad turned his back on us.

  ‘Lock them away.’

  δ

  They stripped us of our armour and herded us out of the church, into a small adjoining room. Once it had probably been a chapel; now, with iron rings driven into the walls and lengths of rope and chain lying in the corners, it had become a prison. The only mercy was that it had a roof. The thatch was black with mould, and allowed a steady dribble of water to drip through, but it kept the worst of the rain off us.

  Our captors tied our wrists, then made us fast to the wall on short ropes just long enough that we could sit. They treated the wounded no more gently – even Sigurd, whom they had carried there and who slumped unconscious against the wall. All told, nine of us seemed to have survived. With brusque tugs to make sure our bonds were secure, they left us alone.

  I sat in the darkness, tipping my head back against the cool wall to lessen the strain on my shoulders. Despair squeezed me so tight that my body longed to empty itself: the food from my guts, the tears from my eyes, the blood from my veins. Only the presence of the Varangians kept me from collapse. The sour smell of blood overwhelmed the room, and the wounded groaned out their pain. I closed my eyes, though it made no difference.

  After about an hour, Pakrad came to visit. The monk’s habit had gone, replaced by a grimy grey tunic and a leather hauberk. Three knives hung from his belt, another jutted from the top of his boot. Of his monastic disguise, only the tonsure remained – an incongruous crown to his vicious appearance.

  ‘We need a doctor,’ I said. ‘And water.’

  Pakrad looked down on me with a sneer. ‘You will get what I give you. After you have given me what I want. He pointed to my hands, tied in front of me like a supplicant at prayer. ‘Give me your ring.’

  I looked down at my left hand, to the finger where I wore the imperial signet ring. Was that what this battle was about?

  ‘Give me the ring,’ Pakrad repeated. He reached out his left hand, while with his right he pulled one of the knives from his belt. The blade was dull in the dim light as he slapped it impatiently against the flat of his hand.

  ‘Give me it.’

  Instinctively, I tried to make a fist, but Pakrad was faster and had pressed his blade into my palm so that I could not close my fingers without cutting myself. He lifted the knife, so that I had no choice but to raise my hand. With a grunt of satisfaction, he twisted the ring off my finger and jammed it on his own.

  ‘Is that all you wanted?’ I asked in astonishment. A little ring – a ring I would gladly have thrown into the dust at the roadside to be free of my obligation to the emperor. Why had it brought me here?

  Pakrad sheathed his knife and stared at the ring on his hand, admiring his trophy. I saw that he winced whenever he moved his shoulder, and I took a small measure of satisfaction from that.

  ‘We need a doctor,’ I said again.

  He looked up. ‘Do you know what dogs do when one of their pack goes lame? They tear him apart and eat him. There is no doctor here.’ He paused, savouring my misery. ‘But I will do what I can for your friend. He will be worth less injured, and nothing at all if he dies.’

  ‘Worth less to whom?’

  But Pakrad only laughed, and left us in our prison.

  None of us spoke. A wave of desolation broke over me; I no longer even had the hope to pray. I had abandoned Anna and forsaken Sigurd, the two people I loved best in the world after my children – and all so that a treacherous bandit could steal a worthless ring. I wished he had stolen the ring from my campfire, or even cut it from my finger at Antioch, rather than luring me to die in this remote monastery. Not to die, a voice whispered – if he’d wanted me dead he could have had me impaled on the end of a spear hours ago. But I feared there was little kindness in his mercy.

  If I kept thinking those thoughts I would have dashed out my brains on the wall behind me by morning. With a great effort of will, I forced myself to concentrate on my surroundings. It must be night outside: I could hear the tramp of guards on the walls, muttered watchwords and spears clattering against stone; water dripping on the floor and a horse whinnying near by. Around me, the Varangians muttered prayers, though whether for themselves, their captain or their fallen companions I could not tell. I wondered which god they prayed to.

  My shoulders were beginning to go numb. I wriggled in my bonds to try and work some feeling into my limbs, and as I did so I noticed something in the corner of my eye. To my right, a small spot glowed silver in the dark wall. I twisted around, trying not to make a noise. There was a hole in the wall, no larger than a walnut, but big enough that if I put my eye to it I could see through into the room on the far side.
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  It was the basilica, the church where we had fought and lost our battle, now washed in moonlight. I could see the stone I had pulled away on the altar dais still lying where I had left it, and the pile of armour taken from the Varangians. Most of the blood had been cleaned away by the rain, though dark splashes still stained some of the walls. Otherwise, the room was empty.

  I rolled away and settled myself in the least uncomfortable position I could manage. Then, God knows how, I slept.

  When I opened my eyes, bright light poured through the holes in the thatch, and I could see my surroundings clearly at last. Immediately, I looked across the room to Sigurd. He lay still under his blanket, eyes closed, the only sign of life the shallow rising and falling of his chest beneath it. Thankfully, he did not seem to be bleeding.

  Later in the morning, our guards brought breakfast: a cold corn-meal gruel that they slopped into our mouths. At least it seemed they meant to keep us alive – though to what purpose, I did not dare guess. After that, we were left alone again.

  The storm the day before might have cleared the air, but the respite did not last long. The thatched roof stifled us like a blanket, heating the dank air until the stench and the steam became almost unbearable. For a time, the Varangians talked hopefully of escape and tugged on the iron rings that locked them in place, but even their strength could not dislodge them. They soon lapsed into silence. We lolled against the walls, occasionally shrugging our shoulders to try and keep some life in them, and sweltered.

  With nothing else to do, I spent much of the time peering through the hole in the wall – though always on edge lest one of the guards catch me. There was plenty to see. Pakrad seemed to use the derelict church as his head-quarters. He sat behind a broad table he had erected in the shade of the domed roof, while his men lounged in the sun and a succession of visitors came and went. They spoke Armenian, and though I did not understand a word they said it was easy enough to work out what was happening. Men and women, mostly peasants, would enter the room with eyes lowered and an offering held before them: baskets of eggs or olives, two chickens in a wicker cage, jars of wine and oil, even a full-grown sheep. Every one of them trembled as they came in – particularly the women. They would deposit their gifts in front of Pakrad, bow low, and mumble some plea or homage, which Pakrad would then consider, or debate with his men, or dismiss with a scornful wave of his hand. Some of the petitioners went away smiling with relief, others weeping or with their heads buried in their hands. Some were less lucky. In the middle of the afternoon I watched as a peasant girl harangued and pleaded with Pakrad, refusing to accept his obvious rejections, until eventually his men dragged her away. Her screams echoed through the monastery for a full hour afterwards.

  I did not watch any more after that. I had seen enough to get the measure of Pakrad. He took homage and distributed justice like a lord, but in truth he was nothing more than a brigand, and the monastery his ramshackle castle. What had happened to the monks, I did not like to think. Nor could I tell why he should have troubled to lure us there, or what he intended with us.

  ***

  Late in the day, when the light had softened to a peachtinged glow streaming in over my head, I heard a shout from the courtyard, the creak of a heavy gate and the clop of hooves. A greeting or a challenge was shouted, though I did not hear the answer.

  I twisted around and put my eye to the hole in the wall. A fire had been built in the nave of the church; beyond it, I could see Pakrad pacing behind his table. He was almost unrecognisable from the cocksure brigand I had watched that afternoon. He seemed off-balance, nervous, constantly smoothing down the folds of his tunic.

  There was a noise from the unseen door and his head snapped around. I heard footsteps, then saw a dark figure stride past the fire. He wore a riding cloak with the hood pulled up, though he must surely have regretted it with the heat of the fire so close and the heat of the day not yet faded.

  Like all the supplicants I had seen that day, he brought a gift: a heavy bag tied with rope, which he deposited on the table. I heard the muffled chink of coins settling as he put it down. It must have been a rich offering, but there was nothing subservient in the man who brought it. He stood tall and superior, surveying the bandit from under the shadow of his hood. Though I could not see his face, there was no doubting his authority over Pakrad.

  Pakrad reached into one of the folds of his robe and pulled out something that he handed to his guest. Sparks of firelight reflected off it, and though it was too far and dim to see clearly, I knew what it was. The guest examined it, slid it onto his finger and held up his hand, twisting it this way and that so that light played on the filigrees of the imperial seal. Then he pulled it off and dropped it into a pouch around his neck.

  ‘That was what you wanted?’ Pakrad seemed hesitant, eager to please, though at the same time jealous of his visitor’s status. With a shock, I realised he had spoken in Greek.

  The hooded guest tapped the bag on the table. ‘That is what I paid you for. Did they put up much of a struggle?’

  He had spoken in Greek too – but more than that, there was something familiar in his voice. Could I have heard it before?

  ‘They fought,’ Pakrad admitted.

  ‘I told you they would. But you overcame them?’

  ‘You got your ring.’

  The guest rounded on him. ‘That was not all we agreed. You swore not one of them would survive.’

  ‘None of them escaped.’

  The evasion was as obvious as it was misjudged. In answer, the guest reached under his cloak and pulled out a long, straight-bladed sword. Pakrad recoiled, reaching for one of the knives in his belt, but before he could seize it the guest had stepped forward, put the tip of his blade against the bag on the table, and whipped it upwards to sever the rope that held it shut. The folds of cloth fell open like the petals of a flower, revealing a small mountain of gold within. Pakrad stared.

  ‘I paid you and I paid you well. The ring – and no one to tell the tale.’

  Pakrad picked up a coin and rubbed it between his fingers. The touch of gold seemed to give him new strength. ‘These are dangerous times. The mountains are full of enemies – Franks, Arabs, Turks from the defeated army …’

  ‘And thieves,’ said his guest drily. Pakrad ignored him.

  ‘Those prisoners will fetch a high price in Damascus or Baghdad. Death would be a waste.’

  The guest still had his sword in his hand. Though he held it still, the reflected firelight made the blade look as though it danced and writhed in the air. For a moment, I thought he might cut down Pakrad where he stood. Then, to my surprise, he shrugged.

  ‘Do as you want. They are not my concern.’

  ‘I promise you they will never be heard of again,’ Pakrad assured him.

  The visitor looked around. ‘Are they here?’

  It was a casual question, but whether by chance or some devilish intuition, his gaze came to rest right on the stretch of wall that housed my peephole, so that he seemed to be staring straight down the stone tunnel into my eyes. Terror seized me; I almost jerked away, but then he would have seen the movement. I forced myself to stay still and prayed he had not noticed me.

  Oblivious to my terror, Pakrad was answering the question. ‘The prisoners have gone. I sold them this morning to an Arab.’ The lie came fluently; I wondered what he would have said if he had known how close his guest was to seeing the truth.

  ‘Very well.’ The guest nodded at the gold. ‘I will not forget your service.’

  ‘And you will see that the Franks do not come here looking for the Greeks?’

  The visitor laughed softly. He had started to move to the door, was already almost beyond the confines of my view, but he turned back to answer Pakrad. The glowing fire threw up a monstrous shadow on the walls behind him.

  ‘Nobody will come to look for the Greeks.’

  I barely heard the words. The firelight that cast shadows behind him also banished the shadow
s that hooded his face, so for the first time I could see it clearly. Of course I knew his voice – the only reason I had not recognised it sooner was that I had not heard it speaking Greek before. Nor had I ever expected to hear it speaking the treachery I had just witnessed.

  It was Duke Godfrey.

  ε

  It was hard to fall asleep that night. I squatted by the wall, my arms bound before me, trembling as my mind burned with thoughts of the treachery I had witnessed – the treachery that had snared me. Again and again I saw Duke Godfrey framed in the stone barrel of my peephole, his pale skin and golden beard turned orange by the firelight. Why had he done this? I knew he did not love the Greeks: at Constantinople, his army had even come to blows with the imperial forces. But that quarrel was long settled, and since then Godfrey had seemed a model of restraint, free of the tempestuous ambitions that shook the other princes. Why had he done this to me?

  But of course, he had not done it to me – or not for my sake. I was merely a casualty, an inconvenience to be removed. He wanted the ring. For the rest of us, he did not even care enough to have us murdered. The thought only made me angrier: I raged against Godfrey, against Pakrad, against Tatikios who had abandoned me at Antioch and the emperor who had sent me there. But the heat of anger could not burn through my bonds or the walls that trapped me, nor lift the crushing weight of my insignificance. Few things make a man feel more alive than death, but now Duke Godfrey had robbed even that of meaning.