by Peter Darman
‘What are you thinking?’
Luca turned away from the shimmering blue sea and the craggy shore beyond to look at Ayna’s sensual face.
‘I was thinking of my parents. My life in Sicily seems remote now and I often have trouble recalling their faces.’
‘You live another life now,’ she said.
‘As do we all,’ chipped in Chana, her head resting on Jordi’s shoulder. ‘We have no homes to go back to.’
‘Jordi has a home,’ said Luca. ‘He can go back to Catalonia, he and the other Almogavars.’
‘The king does not want us back,’ muttered Jordi. ‘He has cast us adrift.’
‘We are all wanderers,’ lamented Ayna.
‘Do the Jews not have a home?’ Luca asked Chana.
‘Our home is Israel,’ she sighed, ‘though you call it the Holy Land. It has been under enemy occupation for hundreds of years. Every Jew dreams of a free Israel. But we are few and our enemies are many.’
She placed a hand over Jordi’s heart.
‘Here is my home.’
He kissed her on the head.
‘What about you, Ayna, what of your homeland?’ asked Chana.
‘It is ruled by the Mongols,’ she spat. ‘I will never return while they are there.’
‘After we have beaten these Bulgarians,’ said Jordi, ‘perhaps the emperor will give us land we can call our own.’
They hoped it would not be the Gallipoli Peninsula, the southern part of which was hot, dusty and comprised rugged, rocky terrain with many steep ridges. Fresh water was scarce and the tangle of ravines, gullies and spurs inland from the coast were covered with gorse-like scrub that impeded movement. The city of Kallipolis was situated on a blunt promontory less than a mile in length, with steep cliffs behind. Founded by the Greeks seventeen hundred years before, it was above all a naval base guarding the entrance to the Sea of Marmara. The well-maintained curved stone breakwaters created a harbour that was both large and safe from strong currents. The stone quays were wide and long to allow many vessels to moor in the harbour, and the dockside was filled with large warehouses holding grain and other necessities.
As soon as the Catalan fleet docked, officials sought out the galley of Grand Duke Roger and harangued him with requests. There was no room in the city for thousands of soldiers and their families so they must camp outside Kallipolis, and the governor insisted the Catalans must pay for any food they required, rather than plundering the countryside, which in any case was poor and resembled a land that had already been pillaged. Finally, as a sign of good faith, would the grand duke consider surrendering the company’s weapons to soothe the fears of the citizens of Kallipolis? Sancho Rey refused outright to even consider the last demand.
Luca and the other Almogavars marched straight from the harbour out of the city to an area of flat land to the north of the port. There they pitched their Turkish tents and waited for their orders from the emperor. Several hours later, the company’s ships appeared in the sea offshore – the governor had ordered their crews to weigh anchor and leave his harbour on the spurious grounds there was not enough room to accommodate them. To add insult to injury, he then shut the gates of his city, leaving the Almogavars and their dependents to their own devices.
The rising anger of the Catalans was soothed by the arrival of dozens of carts containing food, a gift from Co-Emperor Michael. The mercenaries were cheered further when it was revealed Michael himself was giving a lavish feast in honour of the company’s achievements, to be held in the city of Adrianople some one hundred miles to the north. The city, a major Roman stronghold, would be the launch point for the campaign against the Bulgarians. A great army was being assembled near the city, and the Catalan Company would be the élite corps of that army. And it would have joint commanders: Co-Emperor Michael and the new Caesar of the Empire: Roger de Flor.
‘What is a Caesar?’ Jordi asked his father standing near the campfire, over which was cooking a delicious lamb stew, Ertan sprinkling the mouth-watering broth with herbs.
Sancho did not know, either, but the man standing next to him certainly did. Dressed in a magnificent red surcoat, mail hauberk and burnished helmet sporting a large red plume, Leo Diogenes was the scion of a great Roman family hundreds of years old. He commanded the Paramonai – the ‘Watchmen’ – the unit that guarded the imperial family. The Varangians guarded the emperor himself, but the Paramonai were responsible for keeping members of the imperial family from harm. What is more, the Paramonai were recruited from noble Roman families rather than foreign mercenaries. But like many units in the imperial army, it was a shadow of the formation that had marched at the head of Roman armies in the empire’s heyday.
Leo, helmet in the crook of his arm, flashed a smile at those gathered round the fire waiting for their meal.
‘Hundreds of years ago,’ he said in fluent Italian, ‘when the world was ruled from Rome, the emperor was called “Caesar”. Now it means one who is a member of the imperial family and who is looked on with great affection by the emperor himself. It is a great honour.’
Luca and Jordi were underwhelmed. What were foreign titles to them? However, after being frozen by iron stares from Sancho, they both stood and pretended to be interested. Chana and Ayna remained seated, unimpressed by the handsome peacock in front of them.
‘Co-Emperor Michael,’ continued Leo, ‘wishes to invite Grand Duke Roger, his senior commanders and those who have distinguished themselves in last year’s campaign to a great celebratory feast, to be held at the city of Adrianople. To the number of three hundred.’
Luca frowned. ‘Why three hundred?’
‘That was the number of Spartans who held the pass at Thermopylae in Greece against thousands of invading Persians hundreds of years ago. The Battle of Thermopylae is remembered still, just as the campaign of the Catalan Company against the Turks last year will be remembered by future generations.’
Luca, Sancho and Jordi had no idea who the Spartans were, or indeed who the Persians were. But Ayna did.
‘I am Persian, and in my culture the battle is also celebrated. As a great Persian victory against the Greeks. The Spartans at Thermopylae were wiped out to a man.’
Leo’s smile faded as he looked down his nose at the sultry infidel beauty who dared to speak in his presence. She was obviously some sort of slave and he was amazed the Almogavars allowed her to speak in their presence with her seditious tongue, much less to sit with them. But then, he had heard they were uncouth barbarians. His eyes avoided her to settle on the ample breasts of Chana.
‘Which brings us to why we are here,’ said Sancho. ‘God alone knows why, but Princess Maria has specifically requested you two,’ he pointed at Luca and Jordi, ‘should attend the banquet at Adrianople.’
Jordi looked at his friend and they both grinned like small children.
‘It would be a travesty if the heroes who rescued the princess were not present,’ smiled Leo.
‘Stew ready,’ said Ertan in pigeon Italian.
‘You have a Turkish slave to cook your food?’ said Leo.
‘He is not a slave,’ replied Luca. ‘He stays with us because he wants to.’
‘We are company of equals,’ stated Jordi proudly, prompting Chana to smile at him.
‘Well, we have better things to do than stand here and debate the rights and wrongs of slavery,’ said Sancho. ‘We should return to Grand Duke Roger to finalise the arrangements regarding who will be attending the banquet.’
‘I have a question, lord,’ said Ayna.
Sancho and Leo looked at her, the latter frowning with annoyance.
‘Well?’ snapped Sancho.
Ayna stood and looked directly at the Roman aristocrat.
‘You say this banquet is to be held in the city of Adrianople?’
‘What of it?’
‘I have been told the city will be the place where the war against the Bulgarians will be launched.’
‘What does a Persian woman
know of war and strategy?’
‘She wonders why if the Catalan Company will be a part of that war, only a small part of it is going to Adrianople to eat a meal.’
Luca and Jordi laughed but Sancho was appalled by her behaviour.
‘We have no time for this. We must go, lord.’
‘Gladly,’ sniffed Leo Diogenes.
‘Don’t forget to save me and Carla some stew,’ said Sancho as he and the Roman noble departed.
‘I do not trust that Roman,’ hissed Ayna.
‘He is a snake,’ added Chana.
But the snake was all charm and smiles when dealing with the leaders of the Catalan Company, minus Bernard de Rocafort who was having problems arranging the transportation of his horses across the Hellespont. In his absence, Sancho led three hundred Almogavars, escorted by the same number of Paramonai and a handful of Catalan horsemen riding with Grand Duke Roger, from the Gallipoli Peninsula north towards Adrianople. He left Hector behind to command the Almogavars, much to his annoyance.
Sancho made it a point of honour for the Almogavars to cover the hundred miles between Gallipoli and Adrianople in as short a time as possible. As a result, the Catalan foot soldiers, carrying only water bottles and bread and dried figs in their food bags, covered over thirty miles a day, arriving at Adrianople on the morning of the fourth day after setting out. Leo Diogenes, who had difficulty reconciling the Almogavar victories with their peasant-like appearance and manners, complimented Sancho Rey on the discipline and stamina of his soldiers. For their part, Luca and Jordi were relishing the opportunity to fill their bellies with rich Roman food and see Princess Maria again.
Adrianopolis was a high-walled metropolis located in a fertile plain at the confluence of the Hebrus and Tonsus rivers, the waterways running along the southern and western sides of the city. On the green stretch of land between the wide rivers and the white city walls were pitched a mass of round tents – evidence of the gathering army earmarked for war against the Bulgarians. Grand Duke Roger instructed Sancho to pitch the tents of the Almogavars with the rest, but Leo Diogenes insisted the Catalans march into the city where they would be lodged in the palace. Enclosed within its own walls, the palace was a large structure comprising a domed hexagonal hall, off which were corridors leading to sleeping quarters, guard rooms, kitchens, chapels, offices and slaves’ quarters. The semi-circular palace portico was paved with alternating red and white marble slabs, and around the palace were stables, storerooms, barracks, bathhouses, armouries and forges.
Luca, Jordi and the rest of the Almogavars spent the remainder of the day resting in the barracks that had been emptied so they could be lodged in the palace. A mass of servants was ferrying vast quantities of food, wine and beer to the palace kitchens, and Co-Emperor Michael made available a similar number of slaves to attend to the needs of the Almogavars. The Catalans ate and slept well that day, waking refreshed and eagerly anticipating the lavish banquet that was to begin at noon.
Before then, Luca and Jordi took the opportunity to walk the palace walls, feeling under-dressed in their functional attire compared to the red-uniformed guards wearing mail and helmets and carrying teardrop-shaped red shields sporting rampant gold lions. Their idle chatter was interrupted by a broad-shouldered officer of the Varangian Guard in a red scarlet cloak, his two-handed axe in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of his sword in its red scabbard adorned with gold decoration.
‘I have a message for you both,’ he said in Italian. ‘Princess Maria invites you to meet with her before you attend the banquet.’
They were both flattered and beamed with delight, but Jordi remembered that time was pressing and if they met with the princess they might be late for the banquet. If they were, his father would be angry.
‘Perhaps we might meet the princess later.’
The officer took two paces to stand in front of them.
‘It is considered the height of bad manners to slight the princess.’
‘Of course we will meet with her,’ smiled Luca. ‘Lead and we will follow.’
‘What about the banquet?’ said Jordi.
‘I doubt we will be missed,’ said Luca. ‘Anyway, it is highly unlikely they will run out of food or drink before we arrive.’
‘That’s true.’
The officer led them from the battlements and out of the palace, saying little as he paced towards a grand mansion surrounded by a pristine white stone wall, the entrance to which was guarded by more Varangians.
‘I thought the Varangians never left the emperor’s side,’ said Luca.
‘The emperor assigned the princess her own Varangian detachment following the attempt on her life, which I believe you are acquainted with,’ replied the officer, accepting the salute of the sentries at the single gate giving access to the grounds of the mansion.
The gardens surrounding the mansion were a sign of the owner’s prestige and wealth. Elaborate fountains ornamented with sculptures were surrounded by lawns, flowers and trees, predominantly conifers and cypress. There was also an aromatic garden growing cassia, frankincense, myrrh and saffron. And flowers from the gardens – lilies and roses – were spread around the mansion for their pleasant aroma.
The princess was waiting for them in one of the reception rooms, standing and smiling when they were shown into her presence. She was dressed in a full length purple silk dress with long sleeves. Only members of the imperial family were permitted to wear purple garments due to the expensive process of making the dye from molluscs. Luca suddenly felt ashamed by the basic apparel he wore and cast his eyes down.
‘It gladdens my heart to see you both alive and in one piece after your heroics in Anatolia,’ she said. ‘Please, sit.’
She extended an arm to two couches, Luca and Jordi doing as instructed. The Varangian Guard officer took up position by the door behind the two couches.
‘I have taken a keen interest in your progress since our last encounter in Constantinople,’ she told them, walking to an ornate silver jug on a wooden cabinet, filling two silver chalices with wine. She nodded to the officer, who walked over, took the chalices and handed them to Luca and Jordi.
The two Almogavars waited until the princess had reclined on her own couch opposite them before toasting her. They took small sips, not wishing to look uncouth in her presence.
‘Do not stand on ceremony,’ she told them. ‘Empty your vessels. You have earned it my brave young warriors.’
They needed no second prompting, emptying their chalices. Luca felt calm and relaxed. Very relaxed.
‘You have both covered yourselves with glory,’ she said softly. ‘I prayed for your safety during your campaign last year and God clearly heard my prayers.’
Luca smiled. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and his legs felt numb. The chalice fell out of his hand and his arms flopped down by his side. He saw Jordi slump back on the couch, his chalice clattering on the marble-tiled floor. He tried to rise but his limbs would not obey his brain. He felt as though he was being pulled down a long tunnel, the room and the princess vanishing into the distance as the darkness overtook him and he fell into unconsciousness.
‘I want them both taken back to Gallipoli,’ Maria told the officer. ‘And they are to arrive unharmed. I hold you personally responsible.’
The officer observed the sleeping Almogavars.
‘They might have to be bound. When they wake up they will be mighty angry.’
‘They will not wake up for two days at least,’ she said. ‘I will give you the sleeping draft I slipped into their wine. Small doses will keep them sedated during the journey.’
‘May I ask a question, highness?’
‘You may ask.’
He cast a disparaging nod at the two slumbering Almogavars.
‘Why are you devoting so much time to saving these two wretches, highness? Your nephew, now he has agreed a cessation of hostilities with the Bulgarian king, will soon be marching to Gallipoli to destroy the Catalan mercenar
ies. They will die anyway.’
‘Perhaps, but they saved my life and so it is only right and Christian that I do the same. You have your orders, so carry them out.’
The spears and javelins of the Almogavars had been stacked in their barracks, along with their shields, swords and daggers, for no weapons were allowed in the great domed dining hall. Most of the Catalans sat on benches at tables at right angles to the top table where their captains sat alongside Grand Duke Roger, soon to be made Caesar when the emperor arrived in the city, and Co-Emperor Michael. Great quantities of wine were brought from the kitchens after a dour priest had blessed the assembly and the co-emperor. When he had departed, the hall was filled with excited chatter as Almogavars boasted about their sexual and martial prowess to each other. As the wine flowed and tongues loosened, Roger sat back in his ornate wooden chair and reflected on his good fortune, and that of the company he had founded.
‘We have finally found a home,’ he said to Sancho. ‘Now we can begin to plan for the future, instead of living hand-to-mouth at the behest of kings and princes.’
Sancho was admiring the silver chalice inlaid with gold he was holding in his hand.
‘Living in Artake and then Anaia has given me a liking for living in a house instead of a tent, I will not lie.’
Roger raised his chalice to him.
‘Well, then. Let us raise a toast. To the future.’
‘To the future.’
They touched chalices and drank the fine wine, while in front of them hundreds of Almogavars were getting very drunk.
‘Where is your son and the Black Sheep?’ asked the soon-to-be Caesar.
Sancho shrugged. ‘Called away on some important business involving Princess Maria, or so I was informed.’
‘How marvellous it is, Sancho,’ waxed Roger, ‘that a poor shepherd from Sicily and your son should be personal friends of a Roman princess. God smiles on them and us, my friend.’
Sancho nodded politely. Roger was obviously drunk and intoxicated with the idea he was to be made Caesar, which Leo Diogenes had informed him was a title of great importance in the Roman Empire. But Roger was welcome to the company of emperors, patriarchs, princesses and nobles. His long experience in Sicily had taught him such individuals used those lower ranking than themselves like throw-away tools: usable one minute; discarded the next.
