So, one of the shadowy men sent to follow and apprehend him had succeeded. He wondered again why he wasn’t dead: they’d found their spy, so wouldn’t the next step have been to execute him at once, before he had the opportunity to pass on whatever he had discovered?
Then a horrible realization dawned.
They hadn’t killed him yet because they wanted to find out what he knew. When he’d been caught, he’d been sick with fever and delirious, and presumably they had decided there was no point in trying to interrogate him until he was in his right mind. To that end, they had cleaned him up, mended his wound – he put experimental fingers up to the cut on his upper arm, feeling the rough edges of several stitches – and nursed him while the fever slowly burned itself out.
Once he was well, they would come for him.
The weakness of illness was still upon him, and for a moment he despaired. What would he do when they began to question him? When they demanded to know why he had been creeping around the Bucoleon Palace, sneaking into the guards’ room and asking them questions about some old man called Harald? Trying to find someone in authority who would liaise between him and the emperor? Who would, perhaps, have been persuaded to take him into Alexius’s very presence, where, the accusing voices would insist, he planned to pull out a hidden knife and plunge it into the emperor’s heart?
That would be difficult to deny once they’d discovered the thin blade he kept hidden inside his boot.
What would happen when they refused to believe that his intentions had been honest? When they laughed in his face as he tried to tell them that his aim all along had been to bring valuable intelligence to the emperor and discuss it, to their mutual benefit?
They would not believe him. And, attempting to get what they thought were more likely answers out of him, they would torture him. He wouldn’t be able to give any better answers, since none existed, and so they would not stop. They would carry on, down there in some dark, stinking dungeon from which no prisoner ever emerged, and the world would forget that Rollo Guiscard had ever existed.
Gradually the heat rose up through his body. He thought he saw shapes coming at him out of the shadowy corners of the little room. Nightmare shapes; distorted, unnatural shapes. Then hard on their heels came men with chains, manacles, whips, sharp knives, pincers, long iron spikes whose ends glowed red-hot. As delirium claimed him again, he moaned aloud. Falling deep into hallucination, he raised his hands, feebly trying to push the brutal men and the devilish creatures away.
‘Stop that,’ a firm male voice said somewhere above him. Rollo batted his hands against a thick forearm, but his gesture was as feeble as a child’s. Whoever it was pushed him back against his pillows, muttering steadily, and, from somewhere very close, there was the sound of trickling water. Then the blessed coolness of a cold, wet cloth across his forehead.
‘There’s steam coming off you, you’re that hot,’ said the same voice. Rollo tried to peer through the mists of his fever and make out the man’s face, but the cloth was over his eyes, blinding him. ‘Rest easy, now,’ the man went on, his tone soothing. Rollo heard him move away from the bedside. Then the sound of water again, this time being poured, and presently he felt an arm slide beneath his neck, raising his head slightly. ‘Drink,’ said the man.
Should I? Rollo wondered wildly. What if it’s poison?
As if the man read his thoughts, he chuckled. ‘It’s intended to help you,’ he said. ‘It’s good medicine. You’re in the best place for a sick man.’
Helplessly Rollo felt the liquid pour slowly into his mouth. He swallowed, once, twice, again. The taste was odd: very bitter, with an unusual tang, and over everything the sweetness of honey.
‘Good, very good,’ the man murmured. ‘Now, you’ll soon feel sleepy again, and I suggest you yield to it. When you wake up, we’ll see if you feel like eating, since the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll start to get your strength back, which is what we want.’
So you can begin the interrogation, Rollo thought.
He raised a hand and pushed the cloth up, wanting to look on the face of his enemy. But his sense of timing was awry; he’d have sworn the man had only just finished speaking, but already he was in the doorway, about to close the door. The area was deep in shadow, and Rollo caught barely a glimpse. He was left with just an impression of a big, tall, broad-shouldered man; a bulky shape that filled the low doorway.
As the door shut, Rollo waited for his fear to escalate. I am feeble with fever, helpless, and they wish to make me well purely so that they can torture me into telling them things that aren’t true, he thought wildly.
But the fear didn’t come.
After a time, he fell asleep.
When next he woke, it was deep night. No sound came in from the street outside, and the sky through the partly opened shutters was deepest black. The room was lit by a single candle, set in a metal holder on the little table.
Someone moved in the shadows. The big man loomed over him. ‘You’ve slept long,’ he remarked. He put a hand on Rollo’s forehead, nodding in satisfaction. ‘Fever’s down. How do you feel?’
Rollo thought about it. Slowly he did an inventory of his body, inspecting all the places where he had been suffering. ‘Better,’ he said cautiously. His voice croaked, and instantly the big man poured water in the cup and held it for him while he drank. The water was cool, very refreshing and, as far as he could tell, just that: water.
‘You’re right,’ the man said as he gulped it down, draining the mug. ‘It’s plain, honest water. No medicine this time.’
‘My arm hurts,’ Rollo said. He tried to crane round to see the cut. He remembered the feel of the ragged stitches beneath his fingers.
‘I’m sorry for the needlework,’ said the man. ‘It was the best I could do, and I’m not skilled at stitching wounds. The person you really needed isn’t here.’ His face fell into sadness.
‘Thank you, anyway,’ Rollo said. ‘You did your best.’
‘You’ll have an interesting scar,’ the man remarked. He smiled, although it seemed to Rollo that it took an effort. ‘Can you eat, do you think?’
‘I’ll try.’
Now the man’s smile was more genuine. ‘Good. I have prepared simple food. Nothing fancy – bread, cheese, figs, honey.’
At the mention of the items, Rollo’s mouth filled with saliva. The man helped him to sit higher in the bed, propping him with more pillows, and then turned away, hurrying out of the room. He returned swiftly, carrying a tray on which there were more candles and platters of food. He unfolded a clean white napkin, spread it out on Rollo’s chest and then handed him a piece of bread soaked in olive oil, seasoned with a small sprinkling of salt. Rollo chewed, and the tastes filled his mouth. It was quite possibly the best thing he had ever eaten.
The man perched on the side of the bed, feeding more food as fast as Rollo consumed it. He was intent on the task, and didn’t notice that Rollo was studying him closely.
He was no longer young: perhaps in his fifth decade. His hair was still long, thick and bushy, its reddish-blond colour streaked with wide bands of silver that spread back from the temples. He was large, although not fat; he looked as if he had worked at maintaining his muscular strength, even as age advanced. He was dressed in a simple light robe, belted at the waist with a cord, and his feet were bare. Finally sensing Rollo’s intense regard, he looked up from the tray of food and met Rollo’s stare. His eyes were large, and light greenish-grey in colour, the rims of the irises circled in deep indigo.