Siege of Heaven by Tom Harper Read Free Book Online

though to what purpose, I did not dare guess. After that, we were left alone again.
    The storm the day before might have cleared the air, but the respite did not last long. The thatched roof stifled us like a blanket, heating the dank air until the stench and the steam became almost unbearable. For a time, the Varangians talked hopefully of escape and tugged on the iron rings that locked them in place, but even their strength could not dislodge them. They soon lapsed into silence. We lolled against the walls, occasionally shrugging our shoulders to try and keep some life in them, and sweltered.
    With nothing else to do, I spent much of the time peering through the hole in the wall – though always on edge lest one of the guards catch me. There was plenty to see. Pakrad seemed to use the derelict church as his head-quarters. He sat behind a broad table he had erected in the shade of the domed roof, while his men lounged in the sun and a succession of visitors came and went. They spoke Armenian, and though I did not understand a word they said it was easy enough to work out what was happening. Men and women, mostly peasants, would enter the room with eyes lowered and an offering held before them: baskets of eggs or olives, two chickens in a wicker cage, jars of wine and oil, even a full-grown sheep. Every one of them trembled as they came in – particularly the women. They would deposit their gifts in front of Pakrad, bow low, and mumble some plea or homage, which Pakrad would then consider, or debate with his men, or dismiss with a scornful wave of his hand. Some of the petitioners went away smiling with relief, others weeping or with their heads buried in their hands. Some were less lucky. In the middle of the afternoon I watched as a peasant girl harangued and pleaded with Pakrad, refusing to accept his obvious rejections, until eventually his men dragged her away. Her screams echoed through the monastery for a full hour afterwards.
    I did not watch any more after that. I had seen enough to get the measure of Pakrad. He took homage and distributed justice like a lord, but in truth he was nothing more than a brigand, and the monastery his ramshackle castle. What had happened to the monks, I did not like to think. Nor could I tell why he should have troubled to lure us there, or what he intended with us.
    ***
    Late in the day, when the light had softened to a peachtinged glow streaming in over my head, I heard a shout from the courtyard, the creak of a heavy gate and the clop of hooves. A greeting or a challenge was shouted, though I did not hear the answer.
    I twisted around and put my eye to the hole in the wall. A fire had been built in the nave of the church; beyond it, I could see Pakrad pacing behind his table. He was almost unrecognisable from the cocksure brigand I had watched that afternoon. He seemed off-balance, nervous, constantly smoothing down the folds of his tunic.
    There was a noise from the unseen door and his head snapped around. I heard footsteps, then saw a dark figure stride past the fire. He wore a riding cloak with the hood pulled up, though he must surely have regretted it with the heat of the fire so close and the heat of the day not yet faded.
    Like all the supplicants I had seen that day, he brought a gift: a heavy bag tied with rope, which he deposited on the table. I heard the muffled chink of coins settling as he put it down. It must have been a rich offering, but there was nothing subservient in the man who brought it. He stood tall and superior, surveying the bandit from under the shadow of his hood. Though I could not see his face, there was no doubting his authority over Pakrad.
    Pakrad reached into one of the folds of his robe and pulled out something that he handed to his guest. Sparks of firelight reflected off it, and though it was too far anddim to see clearly, I knew what it was. The guest examined it, slid it onto his finger and held up his hand, twisting it this way and that so that