‘Holy Saint Eustachios and all the venerated saints and martyrs!’ he ripped off. He sat up a little, and found that he was lying on a bed – quite a high bed.
‘Holy mother of God he’s awake!’ the woman gave a scream and leaped from the floor, where she’d been lying naked. She had long legs and a muscular midsection and he had the impression of fine breasts high above a slightly bony ribcage and wonderful hips. The sight of her body rose above the pain of his broken hand and arm.
The giant leaned over the bed. ‘You are alive! By the gods!’
Mortirmir had a pain in his head like a spike in his temple. He put his left hand to his forehead, and the whole right front of his head was spongy. ‘Oh, my God, you’ve broken my skull.’
‘Oh, I’ve had worse fighting with my brothers,’ said the big man. ‘There is a lot of blood,’ he admitted.
Mortirmir forced his head back onto the pillow and the pain abated by the breadth of a hair. ‘How long was I out?’ he asked, trying to remember anything the medical magister had told him about head wounds.
‘Almost a day – Anna? How long was he out?’ cried the giant.
The woman spat something that sounded unkind. She appeared, pulling a gown over her head. Before her hair emerged, she spat, ‘I suppose you don’t care that I haven’t eaten in two days, you Christ-cursed barbarian! And now I must be seen naked by another barbarian. And I’m sure you can’t even pay me – Holy Mother, I open and shut for you for nothing and why? I have no idea, when you repel me so much! The ugliest man I’ve ever seen and I the very pearl of this city – the finest Hetaera – it’s like a fine mare lying with a boar. Oh – I hate myself! Why do I do this? Perhaps it is punishment for my many sins – God curses me to rut with the very lowest form of life in the gutters. Perhaps next it will be a leper.’
Derkensun watched her with a small smile on his broad face. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked. ‘I hate to interrupt.’
She slapped him as hard as she was able, cocking back her arm and her hand moving like the arm on a catapult. The slap echoed around the room and she clutched her hand as if the giant had struck it, when all he’d done was to stand perfectly still, a slight smile still curled comfortably in the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward very gradually, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. ‘But,’ he said slowly, ‘I love you.’
‘I will never come here again,’ she said.
Derkensun laughed aloud. ‘If you insist,’ he said.
‘I hate you!’ she shrieked.
‘Of course,’ said the Nordikan.
When she was gone, the giant watched the door for a long moment, and then came back to his patient. ‘Wine?’ he asked.
‘Never again,’ Mortirmir said. There was something odd about his right hand. Flames seemed to lick at it. When he looked, there was nothing there but the warm sun coming in the room’s single open window – it was still hot as hell – and falling on his hand and arm. But it felt pleasant, and it was a long chalk better than the pain. Mortirmir lay back.
His assailant came and brought him some nice water – bubbly from some underground spring. ‘This will make you better. The witch woman says so. Listen – I have to go on guard. I’m on the gate of Ares today. I will be all week. I’ll be back.’
Morgan nodded. ‘I thought you Nordikans guarded the Emperor?’ he asked.
Derkensun shrugged. ‘Something must be up, for me to be on a gate. Now sleep.’
Mortirmir had the strangest sensation in his hands and his head – like flying, like finding he could read a new language. It was all-
He shrugged it off, waved at the Nordikan, and fell back into sleep.
Chapter Two
Liviapolis, the City – Aeskepiles and the Emperor
Aeskepiles, the Emperor’s magister, preceded him through the reception halls of the palace with two of the axe-bearing Nordikan Guard. Their scarlet surcoats heavily embroidered in real gold showed their rank, and their great axes and heavy full-length chain proclaimed their roles. The man on the left had a scar that ran from his right eye to the left edge of his mouth and made him look like a daemon from hell. The man on the right had tattoos that ran from his brow to his neck and vanished into the hem of his fine linen shirt, just visible at the collar of his hauberk. Pages followed with their helmets, aventails and heavy riding spears.
The Emperor himself was unarmoured. He wore a purple velvet jupon over scarlet hose, and on his feet were the scarlet shoes that only he could wear. Every buckle on his shoes and belt, every lace point, every button was solid gold. Double-headed eagles were embroidered on his jupon and his shoes in gold thread as well. A page, one of the palace Ordinaries, held his great robe of purple silk embroidered with eagles and lined in tawny-gold fur.
Behind the Emperor were two more Nordikans, each with their pages, and a dozen more Ordinaries. Two carried a saddle, one carried a sword, and a pair of secretaries followed the Emperor closely, writing down his comments on the matters of state and domestic economy as read from a leather bound agenda by the Mayor of the Palace and the Grand Chamberlain. The two men took turns to mention their issues. Behind them stood the Emperor’s daughter, Irene, walking with the Logothete of the Drum, a slight man with the ascetic look of a monk.
‘Item thirteen, Majesty. Arrears of pay among the palace staff and most especially the Guard.’ The Mayor cleared his throat.
Emperor Andronicus had the blood of the Paleologs in his veins. He was widely accounted the handsomest man in the Empire, and perhaps the world, with darkly tanned skin and smooth blue-black hair, piercing dark eyes under arched and expressive brows, and a long, strong beard that was the envy even of the Nordikans who served him. A thousand years of breeding the most beautiful princes and princesses from all over the known world had mixed his skin to a perfect tone, and given his features the look of near perfect beauty usually saved for idealised immortals. He appeared to have been carved from old gold, or bronze.
His beauty was reflected in his daughter, who put her hand on the Logothete’s arm, making the thin man flush and bow, and went to stand by her father. Irene resembled one of the pagan goddesses.
‘Pay them, then,’ he said, mildly.
The Mayor of the Palace bowed deeply. ‘Imperator – we have no money.’
The Emperor nodded.
His daughter raised an eyebrow. ‘Pater, we must find some,’ she said. ‘Unpaid soldiers are the bane of emperors and empires; they are to us as horseflies are to horses.’
The magister flicked a glance at the two killers who lead the procession. The Guard’s loyalty was legendary. But unpaid soldiers were the devil incarnate.
The magister had his own reasons to hate the Guard – not least of which was that they scared him. He schooled his features carefully, hiding his thoughts.
I am the greatest magister in the world, and I am trapped here in this fading, decadent court when I could be anywhere – I could be anything.
Hah! And I will be.
He caged his eyes and didn’t look at the Emperor. Or at his co-conspirators.
‘How many of this morning’s questions hinge on money?’ the Emperor asked.
The Grand Chamberlain chuckled. He was a large man – he looked like a bruiser, and his intellect was hidden behind his laughter. ‘All questions turn on money,’ he said. ‘Except those about God.’
Any laughter was chilled by the Emperor’s pained expression.
Irene turned her cold indifference on the Chamberlain. ‘You presume too much,’ she said.
They walked on in silence, their steps soft in the vast caverns of marble that were the outer halls of the Great Palace. Once, these halls had been packed with envoys and eager visitors. Above them, vast mosaics recorded the deeds of the Emperor’s ancestors. There was Saint Aetius defeating the Wild in a battle that covered almost fifty paces of perfect mosaic tesserae. The polished stones glittered far above them, and the solid gold in the hilt of Aetius’s sword gleamed like a rising sun in the near dark of early morning.