by David Capel
He did urge me to complete the journey with Bryennius to the rendezvous, however, and stressed the importance of this, saying “Bryennius must have the cover of your presence as far as possible. I do not want him travelling alone to this meeting, do you understand? It may be slightly out of your way, but not much. You must give him as much protection as you can.”
At that moment we heard a bell from somewhere within, and Alexius rose.
“It is time for the evening meal, my friend. Here you will meet my brother officers, and have the opportunity to shake yourself free momentarily from the cares of today and tomorrow!” and with that I heard voices from below, and soon the room filled with a dozen or so of his men, laughing and hooting with the end of the day’s labours.
It was a convivial dinner, with pretty loose conversation, and the wine flowed. I could have been back in the City, except for the military flavour that pervaded the evening. I did not know any of the other guests at the time and can now remember only two of them. Bryennius was there, looking much more polished than he had earlier, in his sombre way, for Alexius insisted that his men dress formally for their evening gatherings. The other officer was the third man I had seen with Alexius on my arrival. He was Kekavmenos, whom I had heard of before, older than Alexius, and with a reputation as a tough warrior and a cunning strategist.
There were no women there. If any of the officers were married, their wives had been left at home. And while Alexius was no prude, the atmosphere was one of a hearty officers’ mess rather than a decadent party, so the presence of mistresses or whores would have lent a discordant note. Most of the men wore military garb. It felt a little like Alexander’s tent on campaign, before he met Roxana.
It is no exaggeration to say that our own Alexander had something of the great hero’s charisma, even if his military prowess was yet to be tested. At first glance he seemed rather fastidious in his manner, with his short stature and neatly oiled hair and beard. His clothes were pressed, and there was not a speck of dirt on him. But he was easy going and good company, and dominated the conversation, leaning back and laughing and barking questions at his officers, making sure that everyone had their say, and they respected him for it.
You tend to like someone who listens carefully to what you are saying, and Alexius had that gift, alongside the politician’s knack of moving the conversation on to where he wanted it to go. He had the assembled crowd hanging on his every word, and grizzled officers like Kekavmenos would swell with pride and self importance if he asked their opinion about the condition of the men or the state of their equipment.
Alexius even brought me into the discussion, asking for my view on the ‘political temper’ of the City, as he put it. I waffled some nonsense about a growing sense of tension in the streets and he rubbed his beard thoughtfully and wondered if we would see a return to organised mob action, which had been feature of Byzantine politics in the past.
The overall atmosphere was one of optimism, however, for Alexius exuded a powerful sense of trust in his own abilities and confident anticipation about the future. The talk was mainly about the coming campaign, either their own project of building up a new, highly trained force of infantry here at Cyzicus or else the broader picture of the Emperor’s march east.
Most of the officers there were sanguine about Romanus Diogenes’ prospects. He had a competent military reputation and they expected that he would drive the Seljuks (as the main Turkish tribe was called) back into Persia whence they had come. It was Kekavmenos who took a more pessimistic line, which reminded me of John Italos’ misgivings. He thought that the Imperial forces lacked the cavalry to provide the army with sufficient mobility. Even I had noticed the lack of horses among the forces stationed here. Alexius agreed, but felt that the Sultan would come to terms with the Emperor before it came to battle, which would allow the Romans to hunt down the various raiding bands at their leisure.
As the evening wore on, talk turned, as it always does among men left on their own with plenty to drink, to the loucher sides of life – women, racing, gambling and the petty scrapes and pranks we get ourselves into. I was briefly the centre of attention, with the company ribbing me about the party scene in the City, half in derision at my soft life, and half in envy. Bryennius asked me about my black eye and cut cheek.
“I’ll bet that’s what had you running to join the army,” he grinned. “was it gambling or women?”
“A bit of both,” I said, deadpan, and they roared with laughter.
Alexius didn’t laugh, and instead I caught him looking at me thoughtfully, with only a faint smile on his lips. Soon after he stood, raising his silver goblet, and we all scraped to our feet.
“Gentlemen, it is past midnight, and time for us to rest our bodies and minds for the rigours of tomorrow. Our guest, John Lascaris, who has graced us with his presence this evening,” here he bowed slightly in my direction, “and our comrade Bryennius set out at dawn for a long and possibly arduous journey. We wish them God speed and good luck.”
At that the assembled murmured in agreement, and then Alexius, to my surprise, started to chant in a deep baritone. The others joined in, and I recognised the song as a military favourite, that speaks of rest before the dangers of battle.
It was obviously a nightly custom of the men to sing this at the evening’s close, and they did so with gusto, the drunker amongst them bellowing tunelessly. I felt a little awkward, for I did not know the words, and had not drunk much in an effort to keep my wits about me after my alarming conversation with Alexius. Furthermore, I was not used to this kind of manly fraternisation. I was a little wary of the team ritual, which is of course designed as part of the military ideal to subsume the individual into the collective effort.
In spite of myself, though, I could not help but be carried away by the occasion. Alexius had clearly succeeded in creating a sense of purpose and soldierly bravura, and I was filled with the taste of adventure. It felt that I was finally leaving my childhood behind, and embarking on the road to manhood.
The officers left quickly after the song ended, and I lingered a moment to thank my host. He was still in jovial mood, so I thought to test him once more on the mission I had been set.
“How bad is it out there, really?” I asked.
Alexius paused for a moment, considering his reply. “In truth, I do not know. The situation is certainly confused, which makes it hard to judge for sure how matters stand further east. In a couple of weeks you will know more about it than I do.
It may be, as some say, that these Turkish war bands are no worse than the brigands that come across the Danube from time to time, or the vagabonds that harass our Italian provinces.
But I will say this. Our capacity to deal with these raiders has been sorely undermined in recent years. The provincial army of the themes has been allowed to disintegrate and is now barely a militia. The Imperial government lacks the funds to restore our garrisons and fortresses.
Did you know that the Bulgar-slayer left 200,000 talents in the Imperial treasury when he died less than fifty years ago? All that is gone now, squandered by his profligate successors. No, do not start! I include my own uncle, the Emperor Isaac, in the list of the accused, though he was better than some. But we must hope that Diogenes can rekindle something of the martial energy of the great Basil.
So much rests on the shoulders of the Emperor and his big campaign. If he succeeds, and cows the Sultan into submission? Well, then perhaps we can restore the Empire. If he fails, then I fear this incursion will prove near as dangerous as the Arab invasions.
But as for you my friend, fear not! Even if the country is somewhat chaotic, that may well play in your favour. Any brigands will avoid two well-armed men and go for softer targets. And the Roman authorities will have more to worry about than you two. Besides, you have my commission. Your journey is authorised! And judging by recent events it will be no less safe than your existence in the City.”
And with that he clapped me on the s
houlder and bade me goodnight. He left me feeling no better about my journey east. Despite his confidence, all the talk of military campaigns and Turkish raiders made me thoroughly wary of my prospects. But I supposed that in the company of Bryennius I would be safe enough.
ε
The next morning I was roused early by a hammering on the guest house door and I leaned reluctantly out of the window into the cool morning air to see a soldier below.
“Sir, you are awaited at the stables. I am told to let you know that you must bring all of your gear. You are to leave within the hour. I will show you the way.”
I bade him wait inside while I dressed and gathered my equipment together. Feeling slightly self-conscious wearing my sword I emerged into the sunlight a few minutes later, and the soldier led me round to the back of the old acropolis where a small stable had been set up to house the few horses owned by the unit for use by officers and messengers.
Bryennius was there already, and a groom held two horses steaming and champing in the yard.
“Come on, Lascaris” he said, grinning cheerfully at my awkward posture “it’s time to get going. You’re in the army now, and we don’t lie about in bed all day!”
I unslung my bag from my shoulder and looked goofily at the horse. Bryennius tutted.
“Groom, show this officer how to stow his belongings.”
As we re-packed my gear into the saddlebags and I slung myself lumpishly onto the back of the huge-seeming beast, Alexius emerged looking as neat and well groomed as the night before.
“I have come to wish you both farewell,” he said, then grinned at my ungainly seat. “I can see that you will relish the opportunity to practice your horsemanship if nothing else, John.”
I was in no mood for wit, particularly at my own expense.
“If it really is as dangerous as you all make out, wouldn’t we … wouldn’t our mission be safer guarded by a troop of cavalry?”
“No! that would simply attract attention to yourselves. Besides, I have no cavalry to spare as you know. And an infantry guard would be too slow. Come now. It is a bright morning! You are going on a pleasant ride in the country to your estate. What could be finer for a young man? I wish I were in your shoes.”
Bryennius saluted the general, and prodded his mount forward, and my own followed suit with a jerk, nearly unbalancing me.
“Farwell and good luck!” said Alexius, and with that we clattered out of the yard.
Bryennius lead the way at a fast trot out of Cyzicus and along a rutted road that followed the Marmora coast to the east. We spent the whole of the first day on this route, and the conditions could not have been more pleasant for riding. The early summer sun warmed us, but a cooling breeze came off the sea to the north-east that kept the flies and heat off for all but the middle of the day. It was then that we would stop and rest among the lemon groves than lined the road.
The country was at its most beautiful at that time of year, verdant with the blossoming of new growth, the air tinkling with the sound of hurrying streams, swollen with the last, fast melting snows of the mountains to the East. Bryennius kept up a good pace, and we ate up the miles, so that after the first day we veered inland and stayed the night at Prousa before heading east once more to the lush valley of the Sangarios. Here at length we met the main road that lead from Nicaea to Ankyra and the Anatolian plateau. The road smoothed and widened to make our passage even easier, and the mountains reared up before us.
So the first stage of the journey was pleasant for the most part, once I had got over the appalling saddle sores that afflicted me for the first couple of days. Bryennius largely maintained a disdainful silence, contenting himself with the occasional grunts about the direction of our route. After a couple of attempts to engage him in conversation I decided to let him be. His attitude did not concern me. I had no complaint with his obvious opinion of me as a military novice. Unlike many men I did not put great store by soldierly skills, and had no undue regard for military accomplishments. For me, they were merely a means to an end. Bryennius could keep his conversation. I suspected he was a dull dog anyway, which turned out to be wrong, but my insouciance suited me at the time.
Nonetheless I asked him to teach me how to use my weapons in the moments of rest during the journey. So we swung away at each other with our swords, and I can’t pretend to have learnt much expertise. On the first occasion that our blades clashed, mine flew straight out of my hand into the air, with a bone-numbing blow to my fingers and wrist. Bryennius looked at me sceptically, but I kept at it, and at least discovered the rudiments of the art – to use the point rather than the blade (especially when pressed for space), and to take guard with the hand held high.
The country here reminded me of the Axios valley in Macedonia, where I had visited our vineyards some years before. The villages and small towns seemed prosperous and busy, with plentiful crops of fruit trees and wheat, and cattle grazing in the flood plain. It was difficult to believe that we were heading into a territory troubled by warfare.
After twenty miles following the river, the road began to slant away from it, gently creeping up the shallow sides of the valley to the south. Gradually the land became less populated and the hills ahead loomed larger. Eventually we entered a scrubby forest of oak and hazel, and when we camped it was noticeably cooler after nightfall.
The following morning, six days after leaving Cyzicus, we reached a small village on the edge of the wood and there bought fresh bread and watered the horses. At that point the road ran up the side of a steep escarpment and we toiled up this first step into the hills, leaving the plain behind. At the top it turned sharply east through a pass in the rocks, and it became apparent that what had seemed to be the ridge of a low plateau was in fact the first of many rises in to a dusty realm of mountains beyond. Initially, though, the land fell away into a broad bowl and the road seemed to skirt its edges to the south.
The landscape here was far more arid than the wooded valleys we had ascended from. A gushing white stream issued from a fissure a few hundred yards to the north, and gabbled its way down towards the road ahead, but it seemed to nourish nothing more than a few sparse thorn bushes.
Where it met the road it seemed to feed into a low drum-shaped building. It would have been barely distinguishable against the rocky ground except for the dark scuff marks of hoof and foot prints that surrounded it.
“The first of the cisterns” said Bryennius, pointing it out as we paused at the crest of the rise. “The stream runs dry at the end of summer, and west-bound troops sometimes need to water here before the descent into the plain.”
As we contemplated the scene below, there was a sudden movement a short distance further along the road. A small company of men emerged from the broken ground to side of the road there, and I noticed, obscured among some stunted trees, some dun-coloured canvass shelters. Movement there betrayed a group of horses tethered among the shrubbery.
“A piquet, this far west,” grunted Bryennius, as he spurred forwards “must be local theme troops. Look a pretty sorry lot.”
I held back for a moment. Something seemed odd about the group below. They were poorly equipped, for sure, or rather poorly dressed. In fact as we approached them it was clear that they were armed to the teeth, though without much armour aside from close-fitting steel caps on their heads. Their gait was assured, a sort of smooth swagger, their bodies swinging slightly unnaturally from side to side as they walked, perhaps to compensate for their apparently short stature. They did not have the bearing of raw levies, and a prickle of unease ran down my back.
I wanted to stop Bryennius, to make him wait, but he was ahead of me and I saw that to turn back would anyway have been pointless. There were eight of them, too many for us to fight, but to flee from such a group without first ascertaining their purpose would have been absurdly timid only a hundred miles from the Marmora shore.
The leader of the group stepped onto the road and Bryennius stopped in front of him. I pul
led in my horse a shoulder behind him.
The man croaked out a word and it took me a couple of seconds to realise what he had said, so atrocious was his accent: “Papers”, he growled in a guttural voice that sounded like oil on stones. He had a moon-shaped face, as dark as teak and pitted with the scars of small-pox. A strange wispy beard tufted his chin. A curious thin, curved sword hung at his belt, and some kind of short bow was slung on his back partly covering a small targe. He was entirely dressed in filthy, almost-black clothes of an indeterminate material. I could not believe it was all leather.
He spat down in the dust at the hooves of Bryennius’ horse.
My companion looked at him for a second, then fumbled inside his tunic.
“Guarding the road?” he asked.
The man nodded and snatched the paper that my companion drew forth. He squinted at it for a few moments, than called over to one of his men, a narrow faced villain with yellow skin, who seemed to read the paper more thoroughly.
They guttered at each other in their gravely language. Then their leader turned back to Bryennius and uttered something I did not catch.
But I did understand the time immemorial sign he made with his thumb and forefinger: baksheesh, backhander, bribe.
His men drew a little closer round their chief and Bryennius paused for a moment. There was no choice really. A bribe can always save face dressed as a toll or a fine, and we could not exactly fight our way through.
I would have simply reached for my saddle bag, but to my surprise Bryennius slowly dismounted, the leather of his saddle creaking in the sudden silence. “Come,” he said to moon-face, “Let us speak yonder by your encampment.” Then he calmly led his horse through the group of men towards their tents, ushering their leader with him, as if to a private conference.
