don’t think there will be fighting in the City, do you?’
‘It is possible, but I do not think it likely.’ Anna spoke firmly, though privately she had her doubts. The Imperial throne was at stake, and General Alexios had never been defeated.
They rounded a corner to enter the square and a rumble of voices rolled at them. A child’s thin wail cut through the rumble, a dog yelped. So this is where everyone is. Justinian’s bronze column was dulled by the rain, the base was all but hidden by the crowd milling around it.
Katerina gasped. ‘No wonder the Palace seemed empty, everyone is here!’
Anna nodded. Hundreds of citizens, courtiers if the sumptuous gowns and cloaks were anything to go by, were pressing towards the great column, pushing past it to reach the door that led to the great church of Hagia Sophia. Caught up in the crowd, Anna and Katerina were carried along as though by an inexorable force, before they knew it, they had crossed the church forecourt and been swept inside.
Hagia Sophia was full of shadows and the low murmur of the faithful at prayer. The air was wreathed with incense and the dome above flickered with the light of a thousand hanging lamps. Mosaic saints, haloes agleam with gold, watched from the walls.
Katerina glanced about wildly and clutched Anna’s arm. ‘Anna, the Empress is bound to be here. I cannot meet the Empress, she knew the Princess before she was sent to Rascia … I can’t take the risk … Anna, get us out of here!’
In the apartment overlooking the Sea of Marmara, the young Varangian had called for a slave named Philip. Philip was wearing a short-sleeved tunic of bleached linen, as he escorted William to the bathhouse, William noticed many men in similar tunics, as well as a number of women wearing clothes made from the same undyed fabric. There must be hundreds of slaves here. But more to the point were the soldiers—guards were patrolling the corridors, not all of them Varangians. They were doubtless there to protect the Imperial family, but their presence must also keep the slaves in order.
William halted in the bathhouse doorway. It was empty and light was shafting down from a row of glazed windows set high in the walls. Instead of the bathtub he had been expecting, tiled steps led down to what was in effect a small pool, steam was rising from the surface of the water. A wooden bench stood at the poolside and linen drying cloths were draped over a rack.
‘Your shoes, if you please.’ The slave Philip gestured for William to remove his down-at-heel shoes.
As William kicked them off, he made another discovery. The floor tiles were warm. ‘Hypocaust,’ he murmured, flexing his toes. Mon Dieu, glazed windows, heated floor—what luxury!
The bathhouse walls were tiled as well as the floor and a geometric frieze ran round the walls. The air was perfumed with aromatic herbs. Philip picked up William’s embarrassingly shabby shoes and put them on the floor next to the bench, handling them as carefully as though they were the Emperor’s purple slippers.
‘Your belt, sir?’ Philip said, woodenly.
‘No need to call me “sir”, Philip,’ William said, amused at the way the man had handled his shoes. ‘My name is William.’
When Philip looked at William as though he were a madman, William realised no one had thought to tell him that he, too, was a slave. Not for long though …
‘William, my name is William.’
‘Yes, sir. I think I had better remove that bandage before you go into the water.’
William gave up and submitted, and Philip helped him undress. The man stared thoughtfully at his discoloured chest.
‘I can give you a body massage after your bath, sir. There is an ointment that will ease those bruises.’
‘Thank you, but that will not be necessary.’ William had a squire in Apulia, but the thought of being given a massage by this slave made him uncomfortable. Had it been Lady Anna, however … He grinned. The thought of Lady Anna’s hands smoothing away his bruises was much easier to entertain.
‘The water has been freshly drawn, sir.’ Philip waved at a tray of oils and soaps. ‘Do you care for me to bathe you?’
‘Lord, no, I can do that for myself.’ The water was blue and inviting. Hurriedly, William stepped in—it was blissfully warm.
‘Is the temperature to your taste?’
‘Perfect, thank you.’
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’
Water lapping at his waist, William discovered a ledge which formed an underwater seat. Lowering himself onto it, he reached for a block of soap. It smelled of rosemary and pine.
‘No, thank you, Philip, I have everything. I shall call if I need you.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Philip?’
‘Sir?’
‘I should like to take my time in here.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Bowing, Philip left the bathhouse, closing the door softly behind him.
William eyed the shadows on the tiled floor. Philip would probably give him half an hour before returning, but he couldn’t rely on it. He must be quick, he would be gone from the bathhouse long before Philip came to find him.
Dipping his head beneath the water, he soaped himself from top to tail, then rinsed off. He was dry and had pulled on his braies and hose before he checked the shadow again. It had scarcely moved. His arm gave a twinge, having been half-wrenched from its socket by the slave master, it needed support. Finding the discarded bandage, he attempted to replicate the bindings as Lady Anna had done them. He made something of a clumsy job of it, but it would have to do.
It was a pity about the lack of a tunic. Shrugging—with the Palace crawling with guards, William minded the lack of a sword far more than he minded the lack of a tunic—he slipped his feet into his shoes and crept to the door. One of the larger drying cloths would do as a cloak.
Easing the door open, he peered through the chink and caught the rumble of nearby voices. He thought he recognised Philip talking, but could not make out what he was saying, or who he was talking to.
Not that way. Quietly closing the door, he narrowed his eyes and looked up at the windows, judging the height. His gaze dropped to the wooden bench.
In a matter of moments, he had upended the bench, scrambled up it and reached the window …
William’s makeshift cloak must have passed muster, for once out of the bathhouse, he kept his head down and went through acres of Palace grounds without being questioned. Not that he saw many people, the courtyards, lawns and paths were largely empty. The sky was overcast, the air damp. A light rain was falling—it was more of a mist than rain—and there was a briny tang to the air. That last might have been his imagination, but William knew the sea was close, he had glimpsed it through the apartment windows.
Heart thudding, braced for the shout that would warn him that his disappearance from the bathhouse had been discovered, William skirted a number of columned
