He reached down and hauled the woman to her feet. I cannot save her but I can save the casket. The woman fell to her knees, clutching his leg in her terror. The merchant and his wife were pressed against the wall between the Varangians and the gate, transfixed by the slaughter. The casket was through but they were running out of time. And as they fought, the men backed inch by inch towards the open gate. Their axes swung and sliced their way through the finest Milanese armour and the Franks fell at their feet, their skulls crushed and their limbs pumping blood on to the stone. The four Varangians were outnumbered five to one but there were no better soldiers in the world. They held shields and maces and fierce animals reared high on their helmets. There were men on the other side of the smoke.Ī score of wraiths rose up, monstrous, metal figures emerging beneath a banner of lilies.
Siward backed towards them, then stopped to listen. The woman held part of her dress to her mouth against smoke that billowed from a street behind. The casket had reached a small square and its carriers were hurrying towards a sea gate that opened on to the harbour jetty beyond.Ī merchant and his wife were on their knees, pleading with the soldiers guarding the gate to let them through. Siward brushed the dust from his cloak and raked the street with his axe-head. Then a single casket appeared, supported on poles carried by four palace servants. The church door opened and, one by one, the Varangians stepped into the street, silently fanning out to form a wall of shields. Sounds of fighting were coming from the direction of the Iron Gate, where they’d made a second breach in the walls. The Franks had yet to reach this part of the city, but they were near. Beside it was a narrow street that led to the Harbour of Hormisdas. In a square next to the great church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople stood the much smaller church of St Olaf, the church of the Varangopouli. In the centre of the room was a plain altar. Eight centuries of emperors looked out from their plinths with disdain. Constantine, Gratian, Justinian and Basil the Bulgar-slayer. Lifting the torch, Siward looked around him and saw dismembered heads stare out from the shadows. Slowly, slowly, the door creaked open and they entered a large, circular room fetid with dust. The Emperor reached up to the heavy lintel and moved a stone engraved with a double-headed eagle. The Emperor pushed it open and led them down a steep flight of steps, worn with age.Īt the bottom, Siward took a torch from its sconce and lit their way across a hall to a door in the far wall. The five men’s footsteps echoed through the corridors of the empty palace until they arrived at a courtyard silhouetted by flame. ‘Now your Emperor needs one more service.’Īlexios stepped forward and looked at each man in turn. You, your father, his father … all those years.’ He looked up and smiled. When has it not?’Ī woman’s scream came from below, then the crash of a falling building. Alexios had known the commander of his guard for thirty years. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and its light fell upon eyes that hadn’t closed in days. Metal scraped on metal as one of them shifted pressure from a wound. They managed to enter through one of the sea gates. Give me an army such as these.Ī Varangian stepped forward.
They carried axes and their armour was spattered with blood.
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All were over six feet tall and had fair hair that fell in plaits either side of faces cracked with fatigue. Standing between the pillars were four men of his Varangian Guard. The cough came again and the Emperor turned.
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