A Historical Novel Series Set In The Dark Ages

Varangian by Stuart G. Yates

Series Excerpt

The sound of her shoes tapping across the marble-floored corridor reverberated around the massive, soaring vaulted ceiling. She was alone, no bodyguard to overhear conversations, or alert the eunuch Orphano of her intentions. Flitting between the pillars, glancing behind her every now and then, Empress Zoe of Byzantium moved quickly. Alexius would know what to do.

After Leoni had left her, she had gone to her bed, waited a moment, then fell to her knees to pray. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she would lie awake, conjuring up fearful images of her death. Cold, alone, nothing more than a waxen shell, her spirit gone. Would God embrace her, accept her into his kingdom? She tried to live a good life, baulked at violence, deceit. Being part of the royal family had given her every opportunity to become sinful, but she liked to think she resisted such cravings. Unfortunately, that was a lie. She often succumbed to the needs of her flesh, sometimes with strangers, sometimes with men like Hardrada. She always sought forgivingness afterwards, knowing she was weak. Faith had been her guide.

Was it enough? This was her fear. Because, of course, there had been Hardrada so many times … God reached into her heart, pulled apart the intrigue, the deceit. He looked deep inside to reveal the truth. Did He truly forgive her?

She pressed her forehead against her clasped hands, squeezing her eyes shut, bringing images of the Holy Mother into her mind. Such images had always been her comfort. The Holy Mother understood the mind of a woman, a woman who was at once all powerful, but desperate and so alone.

When the door eased open, her heart froze. She remained deathly still. Had it been her imagination, or was there someone? Then came the softest of footfalls and thoughts of the assassin's dagger reared up inside her head. She flung herself backwards, already bringing up her hand in a vain effort to defend herself, eyes wide with terror.

“Mistress!”

The voice, low and urgent. A male's.

From out of the gloom stepped Clitus, the young manservant, Leoni's lover. A crown of tightly curled hair, set in the old Roman style, a finely chiseled face, high cheek bones. Some called him beautiful. Youthful, kind. An assassin? Dear God, was there no one on this good earth who could be trusted.

He stooped down to her. “Mistress, forgive me. I have little time.”

Her mouth trembled as she formed the single word, “Yes?” Not an assassin then, but what? A new sensation, one of anger at being so abused, so insulted by this unwarranted intrusion upon her privacy. As her heartbeat lessened, and her cheeks burned with rising fury, the boy held up his hand.

He said, as if sensing her changing mood, “Please, forgive my bursting in like this, Highness. You must listen to me. There is a plot against you. You must leave the palace at once, before they come for you.”

Zoe, Empress of Byzantium, rose to her feet, mouth agog at this affrontery. Had she heard him correctly? How could he know this, who had told him? A manservant, nothing more. Whose ear did he have in order to gain such preposterous news?

Clitus moved his head around, eyes wide, anxious, fearful, as if he believed that someone might be close. He stood up, bowing low. “Forgive me,” he said again and was gone before she could give a reply.

Stunned, she sat staring into space, her nightgown crumpled around her, unable to believe the audacity of it all. This boy had broken into her apartments, a disgraceful act, and one that she considered serious. An assassin he may not have been, but such … she stopped herself, a sudden thought turning her skin cold. What if he were an assassin? He had come into her royal apartments without any form of announcement, had marched into her private room with no one to confront him. Her bodyguards would pay for their neglect.

Anger mounting, she strode over to the door, tore it open and peered outside.

Clitus had gone. The guards were nowhere to be seen.

A chill ran through her. The guards should have been at their station, preventing anyone from coming in without her consent. She had not ordered their dismissal, so where were they? Pin-pricks of sweat broke out across her forehead. Clitus had spoken of a plot; a plot would first need the guards to be neutralized… ice coursed through her veins. She took her robe, gathered it around her shoulders and rushed outside.

She half-ran through the huge, cavernous corridors of the royal palace. No one was about, an eerie silence, a pall of sheer terror hanging over everything, a precursor to doom. She shook her head, trying to rid of herself of such thoughts. But the feeling of dread refused to go away. Something was terribly wrong.

Nearing the apartments of Alexius, and having gone through Clitus's indiscretion over and over in her mind, she knew what he had spoken of was the truth. Why else would the guards be missing, the palace as silent as the grave? She was unprotected and alone. That thought brought tears to her eyes. Someone was plotting to overthrow her, to bring her down, replace her as empress. But who? Orphano perhaps, the eunuch, confidant and brother of the deceased emperor, Michael IV? Maniakes, the ambitious general with the power of the army behind him, or…

She pulled up short.

Michael.

Could it really be that her own stepson, Michael, the former emperor's namesake, coveted the throne of Byzantium so much that he would be prepared to murder one of his own family, to leave the path clear for absolute rule? True, they were related through marriage, and bound by promises and agreements made to the former emperor, but even so, without her there would be no blood-tie to the ancient line of Byzantine emperors. Such a scheme that would see her removed, or even sidestepped, would be an abomination.

She shivered. The old Roman propensity for treachery and violence still simmered away in the blood of her family. There could be little doubt of that.

For a moment she considered seeking out the giant Scythian, Crethus, perhaps woo him as a sort of ally. The man fascinated her, the way his eyes followed her everywhere, the desire so apparent. They had never been alone, and he had never so much as spoken a single word in friendship, but there was something in his manner that left no doubt in her mind. Men had always been her weakness, she couldn't deny it. She had used her body to good effect, securing husbands and lovers of immense power and riches. If they chided her, belittled her, or left her unsatisfied the way that idiot, Romanos, had, she never hesitated in removing the problem. She was, after all, the Empress Zoe, a direct descendant of the emperors of Byzantium. No man could deny her. And yet, the Scythian was low-born. If she promised him anything, it would all have to be lies, and he would see through the deception with ease. No, the only thing she could ever give him was her body. The way he undressed her with those eyes, she knew he would not refuse, but would it be safe to pursue such a cause? Could such a man be trusted to come to her aid, to help her in this, her most desperate hour of need? It was a stupid idea, and she dismissed it, with some disappointment. Perhaps, however, there were other considerations. To sample his physical charms, that would be something.

With images of his firm body pressed against hers, Zoe had to struggle to bring her thoughts back to the present. She needed help, advice, and she needed it right now. There really was no one else she could turn to.

Alexius would know what to do. With renewed vigour, she pressed on, breaking into a trot, as the doors to the old patriarch's inner apartments came into view before her.