Conqueror

XX

The raiders came to the cell as rapidly as Belisarius had feared. Belisarius, Boniface and Macson were hauled out. They stood blinking in the bright fresh air. Belisarius had to support Boniface, who, murmuring his prayers, seemed too weak to stand.

The three of them were surrounded. The Northmen were covered in blood, their clothes, their axes, their faces, even their hair, as if they had waded through an ocean of it. They were strong, murderous, solid as trees. At this moment Belisarius envied them their moral emptiness, their lack of doubt.

It was late in the morning now, and the sun was warm on Belisarius's face. It had become a beautiful day, he noted, now the morning mist had burned off. Though fire licked only a few paces away, he could hear the calls of sea birds, undisturbed by all the human foolishness around them.

One raider crawled through the vacated cell. When he emerged and spoke, his tongue was close enough to the German for Belisarius to guess his meaning. 'It's empty, Bjarni. Just these three.'

The leader, Bjarni, glanced over them. He met Belisarius's eyes, and the Greek thought he detected regret there, weariness. But he shrugged. 'Very well. Askold, kill them.'

'Wait.' Macson stepped forward. 'I have something you want.'

He snagged the raiders' interest. The weapons were held still.

'Ah,' Boniface whispered to Belisarius. 'The moment of destiny.'

Bjarni studied Macson. 'What? Don't waste my time, boy.'

'A prophecy,' Macson insisted. 'An augury, an omen. Do you understand? It tells the future. It is worth something to you.'

'Bird guts tell me the future.'

'Not like this. It is written down.' Macson smiled, a ghastly grimace. 'You will need me to read it to you.'

'Show me.'

Macson hunted through his tunic. When he realised he didn't have the scroll he turned on Belisarius. 'You! How did you take it?' He lunged at Belisarius, but was easily restrained by the raiders.

Another voice broke in. 'I know him.' A smaller man emerged from the ranks of the raiders, dark, weasel-like. When he spoke again it was in Macson's tongue. 'Macson, isn't it?'

Macson gaped. 'Rhodri?'

Bjarni turned to this Rhodri. 'You know him, slave?'

Rhodri smirked. 'He's another slave. I knew him in Brycgstow.'

'If he's known service, he might have value. Spare him.' Bjarni turned away.

But Macson protested, 'I'm no slave. My father bought his freedom, and mine.'

Bjarni seemed irritated. He said to Rhodri, 'Explain that he can either live as a slave, or die free.'

Macson bowed his head, his submission needing no more words.

Bjarni approached Belisarius. 'Now,' he said, suspicious. 'What of you?'

The other man, Askold, looked interested. 'Perhaps he's a Roman.'

'I am from Constantinople,' Belisarius said. 'I am an east Roman.'

'Then he might be worth a ransom.'

Bjarni thought this over. 'Move away from the worthless old monk, east Roman, and you will be spared.'

Belisarius stood his ground.

Boniface closed his eyes once more. 'You are a visitor, Belisarius. A traveller. A dilettante. And you're an eastern orthodox. You have no need to die here.'

'The Northmen's ransom would break my poor family. Better for me to die now, leaving them rich. And I think I've seen enough of this world. Besides, do you want to die alone, monk? The truth now.'

Boniface hesitated. 'No.'

'Then hold on to to me.' Belisarius took the monk's frail hand in his, and gripped it firmly.

Bjarni shrugged and took a step back. 'Your choice.' Askold spat on his hands and lifted his axe, taking his time, while his companions laughed.

Belisarius murmured to Boniface, 'By the way. The Menologium has many possible interpretations, it seems to me. I am not sure you have found the correct path through its tangle, Domnus.'

'Perhaps. But we'll never know, will we? Even if we had survived this day, we would not. That is the glory of our faith. But we, less than dust, will nevertheless have played our part…'

Belisarius squeezed his hand. 'Hush now and make ready.'

Boniface dropped his head.

Askold boasted to his grinning companions that he could behead the two of them with a single stroke. To Belisarius his uncivilised phrases were much uglier than the calls of the sea birds, and, in the end, of much less interest.

Askold swung his blade.