The Basilica of the Angelic Visitation had hardly changed since Jakob’s last visit.

The vast silence, in the deeps of which each footstep, word, or whisper gave birth to a wash of echoes. The bitter-sweet tang of polish and old incense. The endless ranks of benches, seating for thousands, worn to a dark gleam by centuries of pious backsides. The nuns in their crimson cowls, bowed with glowing tapers over forests of candles sprouting from mounds of old melted wax. The star of a hundred spears above the altar, mounted on a great wheel of steel and gold. Spears of the beatified heroes of the First Crusade, fought and won, then lost, before even Jakob was born. And in the centre five glass jars, each holding a pickled angel feather, relics of the angelic visitation that led Saint Hadrian to lay the Basilica’s foundation stone, sealed deep beneath the altar. Even now the Patriarch and a whole battalion of priests stood over it, their gilded vestments studded with darkly gleaming jewels, preparing to conduct an imperial coronation and a royal wedding in one throw.

You could hardly see the walls for the acres of icons, crammed in frame to frame from mosaic floor to shadowed dome. Some small as Jakob’s palm. Some big as a barn door. Some set in silver and gold. Some mounted in crudely carved wood, polished by centuries of adoring fingertips. Thousands upon thousands of saints, and angels as winged people, and angels in abstract: rings of eyes, spirals of wings, rays of fire, thickets of grasping fingers.

One figure drew Jakob’s eye in particular: not painted like a saint, eyes rolled piously to heaven, but scarred and with the slightest smile. As if rather than considering the virtues, he’d come up with a joke, and was trying not to laugh.

‘Saint Stephen?’ asked Brother Diaz.

‘The great protector. Patron of warriors.’ Jakob realised he’d reached out, fingertip almost touching the frame, and pulled his hand away. ‘I carried an icon like this for years. Screwed to the back of my shield. Just a daub, not near so fine as this one.’

‘What became of it?’

‘I buried it with a friend.’ Jakob winced. He was used to twinges, but the one he felt then was sharp indeed. ‘Or maybe an enemy.’

‘Whose graves are these?’ asked Brother Diaz, nodding towards the shrine beside them, its lectern and its inscriptions and its ranks of time-worn tombs.

‘Heroes of Troy, who gave their lives defending the city in the Second Crusade. That’s meant to be William the Red.’ Jakob looked up at the statue, a balefully glaring perfect warrior. ‘Doubt the sculptor ever met him. You’d never guess he had one leg shorter than the other and the most crooked nose in Europe. Look at him now. Forever young. Forever glorious.’

Brother Diaz nodded to a couple of blank stone boxes, still waiting for their own cargo of bones. ‘Perhaps you’ll have a place beside him one day.’

Jakob snorted. ‘God, I hope not.’

‘What do you hope for, then?’

‘To die quietly in my sleep and leave no trace.’

‘You?’ Brother Diaz looked truly shocked. ‘Surely your life should be celebrated! How many crusades have you fought in?’

Jakob’s sigh was deep enough that the old wounds about his chest all stung, each with its own sad story of failures, mistakes, regrets. ‘Two against the elves. One against the pagans in Livonia. One against the Sarimites in Burgundy. One against the Doubters in Bavaria, though there was scarcely any fighting there, it was straight murder. Then Pope Innocent the Fourth’s crusade against the Followers of the Five Lessons.’ He gave a snort that hurt him, deep in his guts. ‘We never even reached Afrique. We stopped in Sicily to resupply, and it seemed much easier to sack Messina instead, and skulk home absolved of nothing.’

‘Even so,’ said Brother Diaz. ‘You are a holy warrior, under the personal orders of the Pope!’

‘She may not yet be the best judge of character.’

‘With my own eyes I have seen you, four times at least, risk everything to protect Princess Alexia!’

‘He who cannot die cannot risk, Brother Diaz.’

‘But you’ve fought great battles, won great victories, suffered great wounds—’

‘My greatest battles I fought against myself, and they were all defeats, and I’ve suffered far less than I deserve.’

Brother Diaz considered the statue of William the Red, glaring into the middle distance. ‘Is that why you’re always looking for more?’

‘More what?’

‘Suffering. Would you presume to find yourself beyond salvation?’ Brother Diaz pointed to the echoing darkness above them. ‘That judgement is for God.’

‘He who cannot die cannot be judged.’

‘He who cannot die cannot run out of time to win redemption. To level your own accusation, reach your own verdict, pronounce your own sentence …’ Brother Diaz gently shook his head. ‘That smacks of arrogance, Jakob of Thorn. That smacks of pride.’

‘Finally you see into my heart, Brother Diaz. You are wiser than I took you for.’

‘It is easy to be wise about others’ lives, others’ choices.’

‘Yet so few ever manage it. I’ll admit, when we first met, I didn’t have high hopes for you.’

‘Well, I was soft, naïve, and self-absorbed. I’m not sure things have changed so very much—’

‘I think they have.’ Jakob had never been much for giving praise. In his youth, because he wanted all the praise for himself, like a dragon hoarding gold. In his old age, because he feared his liking a thing might lead to its destruction. But sometimes the right word can nudge a life towards the light, and a life changed is the world changed. By tiny degrees, perhaps. But for the better.

‘All my overlong life …’ he began, ‘I’ve been a man of the sword. Prone to judge men on the iron I see in them. Their bravery. Their prowess. I’ve tried to cure myself of it but, at my age, habits are hard to break.’

‘I have learned a healthy respect for the sword,’ said Brother Diaz, ‘believe me. The sword can cut through dangers and protect the righteous. As Saint Stephen’s did. As I have seen yours do.’

‘On a good day, I like to think so. But all a man of the sword can really do is cut a chance for better men to take. Clear the ground, so men of the Book can build something worth raising.’ He turned from the tombs and gave Brother Diaz a nod. ‘Let’s celebrate them instead. You impressed me a great deal, the other day, in the throne room.’

Brother Diaz blinked at him. ‘I admit I’ve been … somewhat out of my element for most of our journey. That might be the first time you’ve seen me on my battlefield.’

‘If that’s how you do battle, perhaps it will be you who earns the grand tomb.’

‘Or me.’ Baptiste was swaggering up, grinning at the statue of William the Red. ‘They need some sculpture with a bit of glamour, don’t you think?’

‘And the inscription would read …?’ Balthazar swaggered up after her. The two of them were like cats and dogs. Always nipping but couldn’t seem to stop sniffing each other’s arses. ‘Failed barber’s assistant, failed butcher’s girl, failed dressmaker’s apprentice, failed artist’s model?’

Baptiste tossed her head. ‘I’ll have you know I was a spectacular artist’s model.’

‘Must be why you kept at it for a whole week,’ sneered Balthazar. ‘To earn the big statue you have to stick your neck out.’

Vigga stuck her face between theirs. ‘It’d be easier on everyone if you two just fucked.’

‘Ugh,’ said Balthazar, curling a disgusted lip.

‘Or one o’ you murdered the other.’

‘Hmm,’ said Baptiste, raising a thoughtful brow.

Vigga barged between them. ‘Then I can have the tomb!’

Brother Diaz glanced nervously towards the regiment of priests crowding the altar. ‘I’m not sure how the Patriarch would feel about a statue of a pagan werewolf in his Basilica.’

Vigga looked crestfallen. ‘You’ve a point.’ Then immediately brightened. ‘What if I convert? I mean, what’s Odin done for me lately?’

‘What’s Odin ever done for anyone but Odin?’ mused Baron Rikard, lounging on a pew nearby.

‘I should be baptised!’ Vigga clapped a heavy hand down on Jakob’s shoulder and made him flinch. ‘Oh. Thought your other shoulder was the bad one.’

‘Mine are all bad shoulders,’ grunted Jakob, working them around in clicking circles. ‘And you’ve been baptised already.’

‘I have?’

‘Twice. Once by Pope Pius, in an effort to drive out the wolf.’

‘That old woman with the bath?’ Vigga wrinkled her nose. ‘I thought my smell bothered her.’

‘A not unreasonable assumption,’ murmured Balthazar.

‘I wondered why they didn’t scrub me better …’

‘And then in Cologne,’ said Jakob, ‘with the pilgrims, remember? You saw the queue, and said you’d have what they were having.’

‘Thought they were giving out bread. But that explains why they dunked us in the river afterwards …’ Vigga blinked. ‘And why the bread was tiny and not very good.’

‘That was the body of the Saviour,’ said Brother Diaz.

‘No, no, it was just sort of a little biscuit.’ Vigga frowned. ‘Wait … am I among the Saved, then?’

Jakob gave a long sigh. ‘Not in any way that matters.’

‘And here she is …’ murmured Brother Diaz. He had a wondering smile on his face as he watched Princess Alexia glide down the aisle, like a proud father watching the bride come in.

‘One could almost mistake her for a princess,’ said Balthazar, if not proud, then at least not scornful.

‘Our girl …’ Baptiste wiped a fake tear from the corner of her eye. ‘All grown up …’

She came ready for her coronation, the ‘Our Saviour’ stitched into her dress in gold thread, her four handmaidens holding up her fur-trimmed train, her jewels flashing as she swept through shafts of light. She came at the head of a regiment of retainers, as befits an Empress, flanked by Duke Michael and Lady Severa, a good deal smaller of stature, perhaps, but far from overshadowed by them.

‘Well, well, Your Highness!’ Baron Rikard bowed low as she approached, the eyes of her four handmaidens following him fascinated, like cats watching the butcher’s cart. ‘Or dare I even say, Your Resplendence? It seems you were attending to my lessons in deportment after all.’

‘I thought I should make an extra effort.’ Alex nodded towards her attendants. ‘Or, let’s be honest, they should. A girl doesn’t get crowned Empress of the East and marry her worst enemy every day, does she?’

Duke Michael leaned close to her. ‘Speaking of marriage, Your Highness—’

Alex winced. ‘Do we have to?’

‘—I have … a favour … to ask.’ He swallowed as he reached out, and Lady Severa smiled, and put her hand gently in his. ‘You know that Lady Severa and I have been dear friends for many years.’

Alex stared at their hands. ‘Uh-huh …’

‘Since His Grace returned to Troy,’ said Lady Severa, ‘it has become clear that we have always been … much more than that.’

‘God damn it,’ whispered Balthazar.

‘Told you,’ whispered Baptiste.

‘I have asked Lady Severa to marry me!’ blurted Duke Michael.

‘And I have been honoured to accept,’ said Lady Severa, ‘provided, of course, that Your Highness approves.’

There was a brief pause. Then Alex gave a long sigh. ‘Far be it from me to hoard all the marital bliss for myself.’

‘You have made me the happiest man in Europe!’ Duke Michael beamed at Severa, then at the rest of them. ‘On behalf of Princess Alexia. On behalf of myself, and my wife to be. On behalf of every citizen of Troy …’ And he took Jakob’s hand in both of his and gave it a brotherly squeeze. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done.’

‘Only the task Her Holiness gave us,’ grunted Jakob, who enjoyed nothing, but gratitude least of all.

‘But what a labour! You will always be welcome here. All of you.’ Jakob rather doubted that but appreciated the lie. ‘A ship has been chartered and waits for you on the docks.’ And the duke clapped Brother Diaz on the arm, and gave Jakob’s hand a final shake, and let it go. ‘I trust your return voyage to the Holy City will be … a little calmer.’

‘Don’t ever count on it,’ said Baptiste.

Alex’s eyes had gone wide. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘Once the crown touches your head,’ said Jakob, ‘by the terms of Her Holiness’s binding, we have to go.’

‘Whether we want to,’ threw in Balthazar sourly, ‘or not.’

‘I was hoping …’ Alex lowered her voice. ‘Perhaps, Sunny … would be here …’

‘I daresay she is,’ said Jakob. ‘But showing herself wouldn’t be the best idea.’

‘You think elves are unpopular in the Holy City?’ Baptiste snorted. ‘At Easter here they stick fake ears on convicts and hunt them through the streets.’

‘Right.’ Alex swallowed. ‘Then … could you tell her … that I’m sorry.’

Jakob nodded. ‘She knows.’

‘I knew we’d have to say goodbye, in the end.’ Alex looked around at the rest of them. At each, in turn. ‘I just never thought … Brother Diaz, maybe, before the service begins … you might give a blessing?’

‘Me?’ The monk glanced down the nave towards the Patriarch, his gilded robes glittering, then at his own humble habit. ‘You should have a bishop at least—’

‘Wasn’t the Saviour herself a lowly shepherdess?’

Brother Diaz grinned. ‘I shall miss our theological debates.’

As the monk walked to the lectern before the tombs, Jakob thought back to the Second Crusade. The blessing before the final sally. The battle that had turned back the elves. The battle from which so many never returned. The knights kneeling, shoulder to shoulder. Patriarch Kosmas, his voice like thunder, calling down the rage of angels on the enemies of God.

Brother Diaz was a different kind of preacher. He laid gentle hands on the lectern, tracing its edges with fond fingers as his congregation gathered in a crescent before him. ‘I never really wanted to be a priest,’ he began. ‘I rather fell into it—’

‘Prick first,’ said Vigga.

‘Well.’ The monk gave a shamefaced grin. ‘You’re not exactly wrong. But they say it is on profane paths that we come eye to eye with God. So it’s been with me. I’ll confess, I didn’t ask for this task. I certainly didn’t ask for these companions.’

‘We all get the ones we deserve,’ muttered Jakob.

‘We took a crooked path, with many … dead ends. There were times I thought we’d never reach Troy. Our endurance was tested along the way. We all remember the inn.’

‘Wish I could forget,’ said Baptiste.

‘The perfidy of Bishop Apollonia.’

‘One of the most perfidious bishops I ever met,’ grunted Baron Rikard, ‘with some stiff competition.’

‘The illusionist’s house, and the talking heads.’

Vigga laughed. ‘They leaked something terrible.’

‘Then there was the battle at sea.’

‘I can still smell those crab-men,’ murmured Alex.

‘And the plague pit beneath the Monastery of Saint Sebastian.’

‘Good times,’ said Balthazar, with a faraway smile, ‘good times.’

‘But at each step somehow, together, we overcame. We may have fought with each other.’ Balthazar and Baptiste exchanged one of their glances. ‘But in the end, we fought for each other. And Alex … Your Highness … I have seen you learn. I have seen you grow. From a girl who was once called ferrety. To a woman ready to steer the course of an Empire.’

Alex shrugged. ‘Still a little ferrety, I’ll admit.’

‘A good Empress needs some teeth,’ said Vigga.

‘May God, saints, and Saviour smile upon your reign,’ and Brother Diaz made the sign of the circle, ‘as, in the end, they smiled upon our journey. When we set out, I thought you all monsters. I have learned, I suppose, that you are only people. A set of devils, perhaps, but, on this occasion, you’ve done God’s work.’ And he smiled, and gave a nod, and stepped from the lectern.

Balthazar watched with lips discerningly pursed, like a connoisseur considering a bottle. Then he leaned over. ‘He’s actually not awful at this, is he?’

‘All in all …’ murmured Jakob, ‘far better than expected.’