‘Well, you’re fighting for it! And to fight without the blessing of the king of kings would be folly indeed.’

‘The king of kings?’ Erlan for a moment looked bewildered. ‘But you are the king of kings.’

‘Me?’ Leo laughed. ‘Even I don’t have the pretension to call myself that. It is Christ who is the king of kings, my friend, not I. We all stand under him.’

‘Amen,’ said Domnicus. ‘The Christ is Lord of Lords and King of Kings. Captain of the mighty hosts of God. Come, my friends. Let us take our part in him now. We drink his blood and eat his flesh.’

‘His blood?’ echoed Erlan, his voice a whisper. ‘How can you drink the blood of a man long dead?’

‘He is not dead,’ returned Domnicus with an enigmatic smile. ‘He is alive. Come – all is ready,’ and he ushered them forward.

Lilla saw the change in Erlan, the sudden fear, but could not account for it. As if some unseen terror had stricken his heart. Instantly she forgot all her own frustrations. She reached out and touched his hand. ‘Are you all right?’

He shook his head slowly, but answered, ‘Yes.’

‘Approach, friends,’ invited Domnicus, and the emperor was already at the steps of the altar, flicking aside the hem of his cloak to kneel before it.

‘So we do this?’ she whispered in Norse.

‘Aye,’ Erlan murmured uncertainly, but even in the dim light, she saw a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. ‘We do.’

Erlan knelt with the others, fearing at every moment a repeat of that waking nightmare of cascading fire that had broken over him in the Great Church. But nothing like that occurred. The priest was running through his liturgy, and Erlan could only half-hear his words, was only half-listening, saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ with the others. He felt hot but not burning as before. He was sweating but his wound did not bleed. Instead it was his heart that burned in his chest, his mind untethered from his surroundings, flying from moment to moment through his past – a chain of faces, every one of which he knew. The young spearman on the Norsk fell under a crimson sky; Konur’s arrogant sneer; Inga’s soft beauty, her skin white as winter; his father’s ragged mouth and wretched tears; Kai, one eye a ruin of darkness, blood daubed down his hollow cheek; Adalrik, grey tongue, blue lips; Sigurd’s raging eyes; Vassili’s final smile, ablaze with unearthly light. Death after death after death. . .

He opened his eyes, unwilling to see any more. Instead he looked up at the golden chalice that Domnicus was holding aloft now, reciting some Christian babble over it. It was wine, only wine. There it was in the flask. And yet he felt in him both a fierce curiosity to taste it, and behind that a terror. Desire and repulsion. Love and hate.