The bone fields, p.14
The Bone Fields, page 14
Once the five had fixed towels, they padded barefoot after the man as he led them towards the main changing rooms. Bjarke noticed three other black-clad figures fall into step behind them and these had short blades on their hips. Unease prickled up his spine and his old warrior instinct flickered. He glanced back at them and drank in the alertness of their postures. They knew something he didn’t and they were preparing for a struggle.
So what was ahead? Why had they been called here and told to wash?
Bjarke clenched his fists and stepped into the changing room. Set in the centre, between the rows of lockers and benches, were three chairs.
And with gasps of horror, the five Vikings realised what awaited them.
A chill had risen from the earth, but the stars still burned above and the air was filled with garden scents. Lanterns hung from the lemon trees on the terrace. The borders below were aglow with expertly concealed lighting and the blue haze of the pool shimmered in the dark as though suspended above the ocean itself. Beyond this, the bay twinkled with its own stars, the lamps of a hundred yachts, and from somewhere out on the water, a lone voice crooned local folk songs.
Jupiter pulled a shawl around her shoulders and drew on a thin unfiltered cigarette as she waited for her husband. Caesar had arrived late that afternoon and thankfully taken himself off to his quarters in the east wing without seeking her out. They had agreed via text to meet at nine on the terrace for an al fresco dinner and she had completed her online engagements with her diary secretary, her personal shopper and her house manager of the Palace in Rome before bathing, dressing and ordering prosecco and aperitivo dishes alone on the terrace.
Fabian – as usual when his stepfather was home – had remained on the mainland, most likely primping himself for a tour of the capital’s best clubs with a swarm of acolytes in tow. He had always been a moderate drinker, but of late he had developed a pill habit, which electrified his natural conceit and made Caesar fret that his stepson’s tongue would loosen too much in the wrong company. What could tall, blond, muscled, wealthy Fabian possibly be tempted to whisper in a girl’s ear that would dazzle her even more? Darling, I’m the Imperial Legate of the Praetorian Guard.
Caesar joined her on the stroke of nine. They greeted each other with awkward pecks on each cheek and she poured him a glass of prosecco. The house staff emerged with antipasti dishes and the couple sat picking at them and looking out at the lights. As usual, they limited themselves to superficial niceties until the time was right to speak of more important things. She asked him about New York and he asked her about Berlin. She told him of the gallery openings she had attended in Paris and he went into tedious detail about some stock options that were proving challenging.
Eventually, the staff returned with a risotto of local catches from the bay and then steak and a side dish of chicory salad. Neither of the Ballantynes were fans of dessert, so once Caesar had finished picking at his steak, they had coffee and glasses of grappa brought, then waited until the staff had cleared the plates and left them in peace.
Jupiter lit another cigarette and examined the profile of her husband across the table, lost in his thoughts. He looked tired and leaner than ever. In quiet moments like this, she still felt for him. She could remember the younger man and the passions they had once shared. The heat from the relationship might have cooled, but her respect for him had never faltered. Only her Julian could have built a finance empire of such prodigious proportions, then grown sick of it and spent his last two decades devoting his ardour to the creation of a worldwide game. Only he could have abandoned the boardrooms and the super-rich social engagements to dream instead of leading a Legion. She might not love him anymore, nor even perhaps tolerate him, but she had to admire his vision and tenacity.
She decided the time was right to break into his reverie. ‘I trust your days at the camp were well spent?’
Almost regretfully, he eased himself from his thoughts and turned to her. ‘I had the Cohorts paraded and watched them drill. Cassia and Flavius are keeping them in good condition.’
‘Primed for the Battle to come.’
Caesar resented needing to respond. He knew she was probing the limits of his powers as a mere King. ‘Perhaps,’ he answered eventually.
Jupiter kept her tone light. ‘Only perhaps? The eventual victor between Kyzaghan’s Sultanate and Ördög’s Huns is scheduled to meet my Legion in the final Battle of the Pantheon Season, as has happened without fail for the last fifteen years. Are you suggesting there is any doubt?’
‘Our Legion,’ he said quietly.
She considered this, drawing deeply on the cigarette and exhaling twin plumes of smoke from her nostrils. ‘Our Legion,’ she conceded at last.
Caesar swallowed his grappa irritably and poured another. ‘Let’s not play games tonight, Marcella. It’s been a long trip, I’m tired and there are important things we must speak of. The death of Sveinn has thrown many questions into the air.’
‘You think I’m not aware of that? You think I don’t know why you ended your meetings early in New York, why you’ve spent five days cosseted with your commanders and why I’m graced with your presence tonight?’
‘Are you suggesting events don’t warrant my attention?’
‘I’m reminding you that Kings look to the running of their Palatinates and leave Pantheon strategy to those of higher rank.’
He could not help himself. ‘I am Caesar!’ he exploded.
‘Indeed you are.’
She let him cool and there was silence. The singer was still crooning somewhere in the distance and there was a brief shout and the smash of a plate from the kitchens.
‘I’ve already been in touch with all my fellow gods,’ she said, choosing to step back from confrontation. ‘There is a great deal of angst about events. They are horrified that Odin – Raymond – could have been so easily murdered and angry that the culprit is still at large. It is a travesty, Julian. A slur on the whole Pantheon. What could be more sacrosanct than the safety and untouchability of the Caelestes? Do you think I could be at risk? Could there be eyes out there in the night right now dreaming of the notoriety to be earned from killing Lord High Jupiter?’ Her jaw tightened as her train of thought developed. ‘What if the killer was hired? What if someone out there is paying for the deaths of the Caelestes? One of the Curiate perhaps. Someone who’s lost a fortune to the Pantheon and bears a grudge.’ She glanced around at the gardens. ‘Perhaps I am unsafe here.’
Caesar leaned towards his wife. Her momentary fragility was strangely compelling. ‘My dear, I’ll have the guard doubled, but you’ve no reason to worry. Raymond’s loss saddens me deeply. It was a gross lapse in security and a tragedy so unexpected that we must look deeply into the circumstances to ensure it can never happen again. But it was a one-off. Of that I am certain. Raymond was playing fast and loose with the Rules. He thought he had his actions well hidden, but any fool could see them. And he made enemies. Last week one of them came calling. But there is no threat to the other Caelestes, least of all you.’
She accepted his reassurance, but her expression remained rigid.
Caesar picked his next words prudently. ‘But, if truth be told, it is Sveinn’s demise which has more ramifications.’
‘There is anger about that too amongst the other gods. Malutin and Reis are incensed. They think Petrou broke the spirit of the Rules by hiding his new Titan Cavalry and by pretending he had not spent his Credits. Tuesday’s meeting is going to be fun.’
‘Malutin and Reis are naturally going to think that, because they feel threatened. Their Hun and Sultanate Palatinates have spent more than a decade happily sitting in Tier Two, facing each other and vying for the right to challenge our Legion at the end of each Season. Now, out of the blue, Petrou has thrown all this in the air. He has destroyed the Valhalla Palatinate, he has subsumed their warriors, and he now has every intention of shaking up Malutin’s and Reis’ cosy little state of affairs in Tier Two. So before you step into that room with the Caelestia next week, we need a plan.’
Normally, Jupiter would have bitten back at these words. With a man like Julian Ballantyne for a husband, she had always known she must keep him leashed; must maintain some kind of power over him that would guarantee her marriage and guarantee the privileged future of her son. That power had come when he offered her his place on the Caelestia and she had vigorously held it over him ever since.
But this time, she did not challenge what he said. Perhaps it was the shock of Pearlman’s murder or maybe the reluctant concession that the troubled waters running beneath the Caelestia were too deep and she needed his help to navigate a course.
‘Do you have some suggestions?’ she asked in a more conciliatory tone.
He leaned towards her, his eyes intense in the lantern light and his grappa forgotten. ‘I do.’
She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I am cold. Come, bring your drink. I have the fires lit in the loggia. I will consider the merit of your thoughts there.’
XVI
Lana was holding a Matsyasana yoga stretch in the peaceful front room of Renuka’s beautiful house beneath Blackford Hill, when her phone pinged.
Over the last ten days of waiting, she had fallen automatically into the three-fold structure that Renuka had practised. The mornings were the Awakening, an envelope of time when she tried to be at peace with her thoughts. She ground coffee and heated bagels and sat by the giant glass doors to watch birds on the feeders. She let her mind rove over the events of the last few weeks and months, analysing the Battle, contemplating Sveinn’s death, worrying for her Ravens and pondering the man called Hephaestion who had danced with her on Palatine Hill, spurred his warhorse towards her across the Field, stared disconsolately at her from the ranks of the victorious Titans, and once, long ago, kissed her unreservedly and told her he was falling for her.
Try as she might, nothing made sense and peace did not come easily. So, in the afternoons, she took herself to the front room and devoted herself to the Finding, easing herself into various Yogic asana postures and focusing on breathing exercises. A tiny voice in her head often asked what the hell was the point, but she insisted the activities provided structure and let the days pass quicker.
Renuka’s weapons had been removed by the Pantheon when she died, but Lana still descended to the basement each evening, cranked up the music and worked herself on the gym equipment until her muscles screamed and her body was slick with sweat.
The message that tenth afternoon took the usual form. A few terse words from an unknown WhatsApp account which self-deleted after reading. She was required to report at the East Gate on Market Street at midnight. This was followed, however, by a new addendum: Non-compliance will result in the severest punishment.
Right, she thought. So that’s how the bastards want to play it.
She was damned if she was going to disrupt her routine on their account, so she still spent the evening working out in the basement, then showered and ate a hearty supper. She booked a taxi for eleven-thirty and left the house with her muscles singing from the exercise, her hair washed and tied back, and her mind set. The best of her. Ready for whatever the Titans were about to throw her way.
She entered the East Gate through the Market Street vaults just before midnight and discovered the Tunnels alive with bustle. She found Estrid and Sassa in the changing rooms and hugged them and tried to smile as they stripped and pulled on the scarlet tunics awaiting everyone. Then Geir came through from the men’s area and she was about to embrace him too when she realised he looked different. His expression was so bleak that it took her several moments to realise what had changed. His beard had gone.
‘You shaved it off,’ she murmured, coming close to him.
‘They did,’ he spat quietly. ‘We’re fucking Titans now, aren’t we? Baby-chinned Sky-Gods.’
His face was spotted with nicks and red-raw rashes, as though his skin protested the change as much as he did.
Calder led them into the Tunnel and saw that the other men were similarly shaved. Worse still, their long warrior hair had also been chopped. Geir had always been cursed with minimal growth on top, but most of the other Viking men had prided themselves on their tresses. Now they were all hacked back into ragged, clumsy schoolboy cuts and it was as if their fighting spirits had fallen to the barber blades as well. They kept their eyes averted, barely wishing to acknowledge the women, feeling gauche and embarrassed under their gaze.
The press of the numbers shuffling past the Eastern Armouries and down towards the Throne Room suggested to Calder that the entire Horde had been summoned. They came from each Tunnel, drawn inexorably to the wide space of Sveinn’s Throne Room, pressed shoulder to shoulder. As she approached, she could hear the hum of lowered voices, the murmur of comrades meeting again, but none of the boisterous din which would once have signalled the gathering of the Horde.
She pushed through the crowd and they deferred to her because she had been Housecarl of Ravens and it was natural to let the officers congregate at the centre. Yet now there were no insignia of rank, no outward evidence of seniority. They were just a crowd of rudderless individuals, all dressed in identical scarlet tunics and closed-toe sandals.
When Calder reached the open floor at the centre of the gathering, she realised the dais was unlit and sheathed in shadow. She looked instead across the Hall to where burlier figures waited in the habitual place of the Hammers. She met the haunted gaze of a big, muscled blond man and for a heartbeat she failed to recognise him. Then she gasped and could not stop her hand coming up to her mouth.
Bjarke saw her reaction and his features tightened. His chin and cheeks were pale as summer cream after so many years hidden from the sun, but also blotched with painful red spots, like the complexion of a teenager. His short hair stuck up as though he had only just risen from bed. He looked, somehow, twenty years younger, yet irredeemably older, his shoulders slack and his back drooping. Calder forced her attention away and spied Ingvar next to him. Huge, glorious Ingvar, broad as a bus, now similarly diminished. And there too were Stigr and Ulf, but now they were sheep, not wolves.
Above them, the door to the Council Chamber opened and the murmuring in the Hall spluttered and died. Onto the darkened dais trooped ten Titans, armoured in bronze and bearing blades, but for the first time without their helmets, and from the Chamber above came a single man, similarly attired. He was lean as a hyena beneath his armour, the tendons on his thighs like vipers above his greaves as he descended. His breastplate gleamed, his right hand rested on the pommel of his shortsword and his tight, hollow face studied the crowd with vulpine interest.
He walked onto the dais and came to the edge, legs apart. He watched them for long seconds, taking them in, letting the moment extend. Silence. Every face turned up to him.
‘I am Menes, Colonel of the Brigade of Light Infantry in the Titan Palatinate, Commander of Companions, Officer in Charge of Peltasts, Scouts, Archers and the Sacred Band.’
They might not have recognised the face, nor cared for the titles, but they knew the name well enough. He had risen through the Companion ranks after Timanthes had fallen in the cellar. A hard bastard, by all accounts. A foe who killed Vikings with pleasure.
And now he stood in Sveinn’s old Hall, without helmet and without fear.
‘Welcome,’ he laughed and exposed a ragged set of teeth, ‘to New Alexandria and the Hall of Zeus!’
With theatrical pomp, the lights above the dais came on and the crowd gasped. Gone was Sveinn’s throne. Gone too his mighty Viking prows. In their place, hung from the ceiling, was a giant Star of Macedon and the wall behind was covered by a vast golden lion on a scarlet background.
‘You stand at the heart of the fifth Titan stronghold,’ Menes exclaimed. ‘New Alexandria. And it will be your home as you train in our inaugural auxiliary regiment.’
The insult of the Titan symbols strung high in Sveinn’s Throne Room at last lit a spark and a venomous hum rose as the Vikings rediscovered their spirit. Every one of them knew friends who had died fighting against those symbols. They had all seen colleagues hacked and stabbed and trampled while those banners flew above the heads of their adversaries, and it was too much now to watch them flaunted in their own halls. The hum became shouts and the Horde shifted and pulsated. Ingvar was at the front, the humiliation of his shorn hair forgotten, swearing at Menes and reaching for him. They would mount the dais, grab the man, tear him limb from limb.
Menes drew his shortsword and yelled for reinforcements. The ten Titans bared their blades and weaved into line either side of him. At the same instant, more Titans came from the Training Rooms. These were not armoured, but they carried sharpened iron nonetheless and they fanned out along the wings of the crowd. The Horde outnumbered their new masters ten to one, but they were crammed together and their tunics provided no protection from the short stabbing skills the Titans were moments from employing. Resistance would be a bloodbath and all knew it.
Ingvar felt a restraining hand on his shoulder and he spun to look down at the slight figure of Calder.
‘This is not the time, Hammer. But I promise you, there will be another. Desist and step back.’
Ingvar glared at her with violence throbbing through his veins, but he recognised her authority and saw the steel in her eyes. With difficulty, he contained his temper and leaned close to her. ‘Another time, Housecarl. We will stand together another time.’
‘You have my word.’
Menes had grabbed one of the foremost warriors clambering onto the dais and was holding his sword to the man’s throat. ‘Back, you dogs! Another movement and I will order the killing to begin.’
