A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (i am reading a book txt) 📕

say what?’ the eparch sneered. ‘Look to your front? You’ll make a fool of your emperor.’

‘Let me be the fool, then.’ The emperor’s steady gaze was still weighing him up. ‘Please.’

At last Leo gave a sharp nod. ‘Do what you think best, Northman. You –’ this to Einar – ‘go with him.’

‘If you insist, Your Majesty,’ gnarred the fat man under his breath.

The comrades hefted their gear and set off, neither one of them noticing the dark look on the face of the eunuch. They hurried along the walls, weaving around defenders and siege weapons, and cauldrons of bubbling oil. They passed two military posterns and then another smaller gate before the slope fell away even more steeply towards the final bastion that protected the north-west corner of the city, the Gate of Blachernae. There they came to a breathless halt and looked around, blowing hard and wild-eyed. ‘Who’s in command of this sector?’

‘I am,’ said a stocky kentarch, stepping forward in scale armour and a blue tunic. He gave them an appraising look, doubtless noting the white cloaks of the imperial guard. ‘Something to report?’

‘Those spearmen up on that rise. Did you see them?’

‘Funny accent you got there, comrade. What are you doing dressed in the white?’

‘Never mind that, man! Did you see them or not?’ Erlan gestured impatiently up the hill.

‘See who?’

‘Arab spearmen! They signalled to the centre of their line. Someone here must have seen them.’

‘If I didn’t see ’em then no one did,’ insisted the kentarch.

Erlan looked up to the hill crest. That sector of the wall was a good deal lower than where they had been standing with the emperor at the Karisios Gate. The difference in height and angle was probably sufficient explanation for why no one had seen them. Erlan steadied his breathing. There was no point riling the man. ‘Look. I can assure you that we saw hundreds of spearmen moving along that gully up there.’

‘Well,’ the kentarch spat over the wall, ‘if I can’t see ’em now, I can’t help you.’

He was right. There was no sign of the enemy down by the shoreline. They weren’t advancing from their position. They weren’t visible further out. So where the Hel had they gone? ‘Listen – comrade – what’s your name?’

‘Petronas,’ the man grunted.

Erlan nodded. ‘Good. Petronas. How many men do you have?’

‘Six banda.’

‘That’s what – three hundred men?’

‘Two hundred and forty-two, to be exact. We’re short a few.’

‘Hoplites?’ asked Einar, who knew more of the Byzantines’ military distinctions than Erlan.

‘About a third are. Then I’ve got fifty archers and the rest are spearmen.’

‘Put them on guard.’

‘They’re already on guard.’

‘Just be ready. All right? Please.’ Erlan flashed Petronas a gracious smile.

Petronas gave a grudging nod. ‘All right, lads. Something may be up, so keep your eyes sharp. Happy?’

The defenders fell into an uneasy silence. The kentarch had a point, though; aside from remaining alert, there wasn’t a lot they could do. So they looked to their front, while Erlan prowled up and down like a caged wolf and Einar rested his belly against the parapet and picked at his teeth.

They watched and watched. Sweat stung Erlan’s eyes. His ankle ached. The scale armour, which was new and a fraction too tight, rubbed under his armpits. His mind flitted like a nervous hawk. To Lilla, to Aska, to the seeping blood in that vast temple, to the fire and the terrifying visions. To Vassili. He gazed down at the old scars on the inside of his forearm. Each cut had unlocked the berserker strength in him. The beautiful madness they called it in the north. Was it beautiful, though? Should he cut himself again, if it came to a fight? He glanced over at Einar and thought of the last time he had stood in the blood-fray. On a ship, with another friend by his side. A friend he had slaughtered in his unseeing madness.

No. . .

No. There must be no red madness this time – only cold-blooded killing.

‘Would you stop with your damn hobbling up and down!’ Einar suddenly exclaimed. ‘You’re making me nervous, boy.’

‘Sorry.’ Erlan gave a rueful snort. ‘Sorry. Just a strange way to fight a battle, this.’

‘Suits me fine.’ Einar nodded up at the Karisios Gate which seemed almost to hover above them. ‘It’s a damned sight safer than being up there.’

That was when a voice inside the walls started screaming. A woman’s scream, so visceral it sounded inhuman.

The defenders’ heads turned. Frozen for an eye-blink by the shock of the sound, Erlan suddenly rushed to the inside wall overlooking the district. But he could see nothing. He felt the uneasiness of the men around him. The screaming stopped. Petronas was by his side. ‘Where was it coming from?’

‘Below the palace, I think.’ Petronas shielded his eyes. ‘Near St Mary’s basilica.’ The small dome of a church was bulging at them hardly a hundred paces inside the walls. There was another sharp, startling scream, a squall of protest lasting a few seconds, then an abrupt silence. A figure flashed across the end of the street that ran from below them into the basilica square. Then another. And another.

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Petronas muttered. ‘They’re inside the walls.’

‘Bring your men,’ Erlan snarled, flinging off his cloak and striding for the steps.

‘How many?’ Petronas yelled after him.

‘All of them!’

Katāros worked nervously at the gem-studded rings on his fingers. It was still possible. The numbers were still in the Arabs’ favour. And still the alarm had not been raised.

Curse that cripple! Curse his black eyes!

But Katāros still had cause to hope. All attention was trained on the threat from the west. No one could expect it in their rear.

From his position behind the emperor, he could see the mass of Arab lancers and infantrymen with their bamboo javelins and long swords of Indian steel driving forward towards the outer gate. Two tall siege towers had advanced within fifty yards of the gate-towers, and from their uppermost platforms Arab archers were pouring volley after