The Mosaic of Shadows by Tom Harper Page A

himself on the floor in an undignified sprawl, as – with a humming crack – the bolt from my weapon sprang into the air. It went many paces wide of him and struck a bust, shattering the stone face into countless broken fragments.
    I could hear the running footsteps of guards behind me, but I had made my point. I lowered the weapon, and spread my arms wide in innocence.
    Krysaphios raised himself to his feet, his shimmering robes creased and streaked with dust, his golden hat knocked crooked. His smooth face was ridged with fury.
    ‘Do you presume to enter this sacred place and murder me?’ he shrieked. ‘Shall I have you chained in the dungeons, for the torturers to tear you apart inch from inch? How dare you aim such a weapon at me, I who sleep at the feet of Emperors and guide the fate of nations? You might as well turn it on my master himself.’
    ‘Did you shit yourself?’ I had intended my antic to get his attention, but now we were both beyond the control of our feelings. ‘This is the weapon which was turned on your master, which came within a hand’s breadth of breaking open his skull like that marble head. I, Demetrios, discovered it. Just as I discovered the boy who wielded it against the Emperor four days ago. If you think a barbarian berserker would have done so well, one who would sooner slice off men’s heads than hear their secrets, then employ him next time.’
    I turned my back and looked to the bronze doors. A line of Varangians – not Sigurd, thank God – barred it, their axes raised before them. Suddenly I wondered if I had not made a terrible miscalculation.
    ‘Demetrios.’
    Krysaphios’ call stilled me, but I kept my gaze away from him.
    ‘Demetrios.’
    The timbre of his voice was moderated now; he seemed to have mastered his anger. Reluctantly, I turned to face him.
    ‘You cannot expect to shoot your bow at the parakoimomenos and see me laugh it off as a jest.’ He may have subdued the violence in his voice, but it still burned in his face.
    I smiled a grim smile. ‘Believe me, eunuch – if I had shot my bow at you, you would have breath neither to laugh nor curse.’ I lifted a hand to quell his retort. ‘And nor would I, I know. I do not threaten you; I merely comment on the miraculous accuracy of this foreign weapon, this tzangra . And its awesome strength.’
    Krysaphios looked to the shards of statue on the floor by his feet. ‘That was the Emperor’s mother,’ he chided me. ‘Carved from a relic of antiquity. He will be displeased.’
    ‘He would be more displeased if it had been his head the arrow struck.’
    I walked forward to Krysaphios and held the bow out for his inspection. It was an extraordinary weapon, much as the Genoese merchant had described it in the tavern, yet somehow more elegant and more lethal in form. Curved horns arced out like wings from the end of a shaft, which was carved at its butt to fit snug in a man’s shoulder. There was a channel routed down the middle to grip the short arrow, and a levered hook behind it to hold the string taut. As I had discovered with my gourds that afternoon, it was wondrously easy to learn to aim it, but a wrench on the shoulders to nock the bowstring. No wonder the assassin had only been able to loose one shot.
    ‘And you found this with the boy?’ Krysaphios plucked at the string, but could scarcely move it. ‘Sigurd did not tell me that.’
    ‘The boy had hidden it near the harbour. He told me where it was and I retrieved it.’ What he had really told me, at least at first, was that he had thrown it into the sea, but I refused to accept that he would discard so priceless a weapon. ‘He calls it an arbalest.’
    ‘And how did he come by it?’ Krysaphios’ tone was urgent now; he paced the tiled floor restlessly, kicking at bits of the broken statue with his toe.
    ‘The boy spoke only Frankish; I had his story through an interpreter. There were many things she did not understand, or could not make