‘That’s good to know,’ said Einar approvingly. ‘But if I do have to fight, it’ll be with this old fellow.’ The Sveär tapped the tip of his battered axe. The long handle was scored with old marks and cuts, each one a memento to another man’s attempt to kill him. But its blade was nearly a foot long, polished to a mirror and sharp as sin. Alexios peered at the weapon doubtfully. ‘An axe?’

‘Aye, a bloody axe,’ barked Einar. ‘I can paint the thing white if it makes you happier.’

‘That won’t be necessary. And you?’

‘I have this,’ said Erlan, touching Wrathling’s hilt. ‘But I’ll use a spear if I must. A man can’t carry too much steel. In my experience.’

‘I know something of your experience,’ replied Alexios. ‘You killed Georgios.’

‘Georgios?’

‘He was Arbasdos’s best spatharios. Some say the best in the city. And a friend of mine.’

‘Someone should have told me.’

The guard commander held Erlan’s gaze for a long moment, his face calm and unreadable. ‘I would have done the same,’ he said at length. ‘In your position.’

‘Not that it’s worth much. . . but I’m sorry you lost your friend.’

Alexios grunted. ‘We all die. Not everyone lives when they have the chance. But he did. . . at least until you came along. . . Now, most of your immediate duties will be ceremonial.’

‘Ceremonial?’

‘He means mostly we’ll be standing around,’ explained Einar.

Erlan nodded. After his time in the hole, standing around in bleached finery sounded sweet to him.

‘The word from the land walls is that the Arab army has been drawing up its lines for an attack,’ went on Alexios. ‘The emperor expects them to test our defences any day now. The patriarch has called the whole city to a day of repentance.’

‘Re—pen—tance? What’s that?’ Erlan looked over at Einar for an explanation but the fat man only shrugged.

‘A mass. We humble ourselves before God,’ said Alexios. ‘Without his aid, the city is already lost.’

‘You mean a sacrifice?’

Alexios frowned. ‘I suppose. Of a kind.’

Unbidden, Erlan’s memory conjured those nine bodies hanging from the Sacred Oak in Uppsala, hoarfrost glistening on their lovely, lifeless faces. That had been Queen Saldas’s sacrifice – her ‘contribution’ to her king’s victory in those bitter days of winter.

‘What does it involve?’ he asked.

‘You’ll see.’

‘It’s all rather solemn, don’t you think?’ said Princess Anna in a conspiratorial whisper to Lilla.

‘Hush, daughter,’ murmured her mother Maria before Lilla could answer. Instead Lilla raised a complicit eyebrow at the young Basílopoúla and was rewarded with an elfin smile.