East & West- Catharsis

by David Capel

  Then, after ten paces or so, with almost an afterthought he turned to me and to my surprise spoke in Latin, saying: “Johannes, follow slowly after the count of thirty.”

  The sallow faced lieutenant frowned and cocked his ear, and I flinched as the adrenalin pumped into me with the sure knowledge that Bryennius planned something drastic. But it replaced the fear of being left alone with the remaining ruffians, so I managed to remain still, and then, once the two captains were half-way to the tethered beasts, I started to shift and drift towards them, as carelessly as I could. I did not look back, but I sensed that the footmen followed after, but casually, as if following my example to spectate from afar on the meeting of their superiors, rather than to guard me closely.

  Some fifty yards ahead of me I saw the two men stop near the thorn trees and Bryennius turned to the other and said something inaudible. Then he turned and fiddled with the strapping of his saddlebag, and suddenly there was a crack as he spun to face his escort once more, this time swinging his arm, and his fist connected with the man’s face, following right through, and he fell like a stone. Bryennius kicked him hard on the ground once, and I saw the body shift under the lateral force of the blow to his head. Then the veteran drew his sword, and turned to me:

  “Ride, Ride!”

  For an instant I looked on in astonishment, and saw that my companion, instead of butchering the prone figure, was hacking at the lines that kept the troop’s horses tied to the trees.

  There were yelps and shouts behind me, and cursing with fear and shock I spurred my horse up at an angle to the road ahead.

  I could hear Bryennius roaring and beating at the horses and then to my horror I heard a sound that would soon become all too familiar – the swooshing, humming noise of an arrow that comes close to the face, and I knew what it must be before I saw the thing like a streak of shadow a few feet in front of me. I risked a glance behind, and the bowman was already stringing another, while the other men ran futilely after me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bryennius bundling himself onto his horse – the other beasts did not seem to have gone far – and the race was on.

  I did not hear another arrow – if it had been fired it must have fallen behind – but instead a most piercing whistle split the air. I pelted down the road, my head flush with the horse’s neck, and felt like a rider for the Blues in the hippodrome, with my cloak flapping in the wind behind me and my sword slapping against the saddle. It was as fast as I had ridden in my life, for sure, and I felt certain that the horse would slip at any moment on the loose dirt and stones that covered the dry track.

  Again I glanced behind, nearly unbalancing myself, and there was my guardian not far away. He must have gained some distance on me already. My thoughts were too slow and I let him catch up, for it seemed to me that the men behind on foot had no chance to overtake us, and we should be sure of taking a considerable lead on them before they caught their own mounts.

  But as he saw me moderate my speed, Bryennius shouted “Ride on, you fool,” and then I saw that, just a couple of hundred paces behind him, our pursuers were already swinging into their saddles on the road.

  How on earth had they gathered their horses so quickly? Then the strange whistle came back to me. Could these fiends have some supernatural control over their beasts?

  I put my head down and slammed my heels into my own horse, and felt the animal leap forward once more. But I was no horseman yet, and in seconds Bryennius caught up, and an awful feeling clutched at my stomach, exactly the same as had struck me when pursued by the thugs back in the City – the dread feeling of the quarry, knowing that it would soon be brought to ground.

  We were now riding more or less toe to toe and I yelled “Petchenegs? Are they Petchenegs?” more in desperate hope that real expectation, and just heard the response:

  “Turks you fool.”

  Our delicate conversation was interrupted by that whooshing sound once more, and an arrow flickered, incredibly, just between our faces.

  “Jesus Bloody Christ,” I shouted incoherently, unbelieving that our pursuers could shoot from the saddle as they closed on us.

  Bryennius was yelling at me, pointing up ahead, but for some reason I couldn’t hear. I looked into the wind, and there was a cluster of rocks jutting out into the road as it bent southwards and out of sight. He was slowing already, and I knew he meant to fight, which meant certain death, just as it would be to flee.

  Panic briefly conquered me, followed by a fleeting calmness as we rounded the bend and pulled in our horses as the view beyond opened up.

  Fleeting, for then in an instant everything changed once more. There, just a quarter mile ahead, was the dust and movement of a large body of men and animals.

  Immediately we spurred our horses. “Come on,” I shouted, more to myself than anyone, as does a charioteer as he suddenly senses victory after a hopeless chase in which his opponent falls at the last corner.

  We hurtled towards the oncoming column, heedless of what the newcomers might think of two onrushing cavalrymen charging straight for them. At last I was aware of some rather shambolic movement ahead, and the head of the column seemed to peel into two to greet us like the mouth of a snake, and the glitter of steel in the sunlight heralded their hostile reaction.

  “Stop, stop,” bellowed Bryennius, whether to me or to them I was not sure. He pulled up twenty paces or so from the front rank, and I followed suit. Bryennius dismounted once more, then walked quickly toward the column of men. I glanced behind, and our pursuers had halted further up the road and I felt surge of relief that we were safe, though still I stayed mounted.

  My companion was approaching the leading men with his arms open. It was clear that they were Roman troops, a theme company by the looks of them, barely more than militia, but with imperial standards and a couple of mounted officers further back.

  “We’re Romans,” cried Bryennius, “Friends.”

  The forward infantrymen stood still, two of them with bows still drawn, looking at us suspiciously, while an officer pushed his mount to the fore.

  “Who are you?” he said in good Greek, but with an accent I did not recognise.

  “We are Imperial officers, waylaid by a band of Turks yonder, explained Bryennius.

  “Turks? What kind of Turks? These ones?”

  He indicated behind us and I swivelled round and with a shock saw five of our pursuers, dismounted once more, who had crept up behind us. At their head was the sallow faced lieutenant.

  “Komes Erkan, what is going on? Who are these people?”

  I did not know whether to be more astonished at the title, Komes, which implied a senior imperial cavalry officer, or by the man’s reply, which was in fluent, almost accentless Greek:

  “We are apprehending these men for assault and breaking a check point. They attacked the captain of the troop I am with and we are pursing them.”

  Bryennius nearly exploded. “What? You fucking brigand, you tried to blackmail us! You shot at us!”

  The Turk, Erkan, looked at him, unperturbed. He had black eyes, and a cruel, downward twist to his narrow mouth. He was ugly as sin, but I noticed that, unlike his commander, he was not dressed like a brigand. Under the layer of dust that by now cloaked us all he wore an expensive looking gold clasp at his shoulder, that might have been Arabic, and a wide leather belt studded with silver decoration.

  “You unlawfully struck an Imperial officer and then fled the scene. We had every right to try to stop you,” said the Turk, who then turned to the Roman officer and to my amazement said,

  “Taxiarch Nicodemes, these runaways nearly killed Captain Urgul. This man struck him a blow to the head for no apparent reason and he lies prone at the check point yonder. They must both be held to account. Please assist me in arresting them. They must be brought to justice.”

  And he took hold of my bridle.

  Bryennius swore and placed his hand on the handle of his sword, but before he could draw it two of the Roman foot soldie
rs grabbed his arms. He heaved himself back, forcing them off balance, and for a moment pulled himself free but before he could move away, another three soldiers had grabbed hold of him, and the taxiarch cried “take his sword and other weapons!”

  From safety a few moments earlier we were suddenly on the brink of disaster once more. It was hard to understand how we were being arrested by Roman troops at the behest of some ragged looking bandits, but I could see that an angry reaction would only make ourselves look even worse.

  I held up my arms and in a loud voice cried:

  “General!”

  Several faces turned to me, Turk and Roman. The word had given me a moment. Who was the general, they were wondering?

  “Quartermaster General, calm yourself”, I addressed myself pointedly to Bryennius.

  “These men have clearly arrived at a misunderstanding,” I continued. Then, to the officer, I said as calmly as I could, “Taxiarch Nicodemes, my apologies. We have come upon you in a state of confusion. We are in some haste bearing messages from General Comnenus to the Imperial Staff. We mistook these men for raiders, and an altercation ensued.”

  I spoke in my most refined city voice and flourished Alexius’ commission in front of his nose before tucking it back into my tunic.

  Nicodemes looked at me, a frown upon his face. Before he could reply I tuned to the yellow faced Turk. “Sir, my apologies. These are dangerous times. We mistook you for hostile troops and decided to run for it.”

  “Apologies?” roared Bryennius, “These fuckers…”

  “Silence!” I bellowed at the top of my voice.

  I swivelled back to the column leader. “Gentlemen, we must be on our way. I’m sure we have detained you all from your duties unnecessarily. How far is the nearest staging post?”

  I was praying that my air of authority would carry us through. For all they knew I might be some senior official. Nicodemes, theoretically my equal in rank, though in practice holding far more authority, looked from me to the Turk, and asked him, too deferentially for my liking:

  “Are you happy with this explanation, Erkan?”

  The cruel-faced man looked up at me, still holding on to my bridle. I stared steadily back, trying not to let my gaze slide away from the black hostility in his eyes.

  “Who are you, and where are you going, exactly?” he asked in his flat, hard voice.

  “Who I am is no concern of yours. It is enough that we are travelling under the authority of General Comnenus, and that the duty of all imperial soldiers, especially officers like Nicodemes here, is to assist us by any means in their power. I would not want to put him in a position where he has to answer for our delay.”

  I held Erkan’s stare and saw the anger flash briefly across his face. The man looked like a murderer then. But after a moment he stepped back and released my reins. “I suppose you look harmless enough. Lucky perhaps, but harmless.”

  I took that as a dismissal, and nudged my horse away from him and towards the taxiarch Nicodemes, and the road behind him.

  “With your permission?” I asked. To my relief he stood aside, and I edged forward while the soldiers released Bryennius. He shook himself like a dog ridding himself of water and stomped over to reclaim his horse. Together we edged slowly though the column of soldiers in silence, aware of their curious faces as they shuffled away from the side of the road to let us past.

  Once beyond the final rank the urge was overwhelming to gallop off and leave these strange allies far behind, but we trotted on grimly in unspoken determination to retain our dignity. Only when we had covered nearly half a mile did I pause and look behind. The column had restarted its shambolic march, though I could make out a group of officers standing to one side of the road. They seemed to be looking towards us, though it was difficult to make out in the dusty conditions if the Turks were with them.

  “Christ,” I exclaimed, “if those Turks are our friends, then I hate to think what hostile ones are like!”

  Bryennius half guffawed, half exhaled in relief. “And if those troops are the best we can muster then it is no wonder we are recruiting the very vagabonds that afflict this country. If the Emperor ever gets to grip with the Turkish Sultan that will not be the end of it.”

  And then the veteran looked at me and said “I’m sorry, I nearly got us into trouble up there. You did well to talk us out of it.”

  “It’s nothing,” I shook my head dismissively. “If you hadn’t dealt with that blackmailing captain, we’d probably be penniless, or worse, by now. But whose men are these exactly? Who do they answer to?”

  “To us, in theory, and to themselves in practice, most likely. The problem with these raiders is that they do not form a coherent nation. They have been flooding into Anatolia from the East in disparate bands, some big, some small. Some are answerable to the Sultan, others seem to own no master, or to pledge allegiances as it suits them. Many are up for hire, and at different times it seems better to our leaders to pay them to guard the roads and stay out of trouble rather than suffer their robbery and brigandage.”

  “Not a very healthy state of affairs. It seems we have invited the viper into our very nest. Those Turks looked as though they would as soon have slit our throats than let us pass. And I did not like the look of that Greek speaking one. Erkan, was it? Thank the stars he did not speak Latin too!”

  “An oily looking bastard, you are right. He did not fit the random brigand type at all. I wonder who he was. We would do well to avoid him. Come! There are only a couple of hours until nightfall. Let us put some distance between ourselves and our new friends.”

  ζ

  If my first encounter with the Turks had been inauspicious it did at least have two favourable outcomes. The first was that Bryennius seemed to find a new respect for me, if only out of shame at his own loss of control. He began to defer to my opinions more, and to take an interest in me.

  The second was that I felt more confident in my mission. This might seem strange given our encounter with the mercenary Turks, and in the ensuing days we would come across much more evidence of the parlous state of the eastern provinces. But the fracas on the pass had bolstered my self esteem, and not just because of my success in talking my way out of the crisis. I may not have drawn my sword, let alone fought with anyone. But I had been shot at, and escaped unscathed. It is hard to explain, and it may seem absurd, but there had been moments of calm back then, when I had felt a measure of control over the situation.

  I reflected on the weird crisis in mind and body of combat and flight. A slowing down of time, a strange mental calmness while my body was simultaneously pumping with energy. The feeling was unmistakeable, something I had not felt before. Unlike the moment when I was attacked in the City, there was a feeling of control, which in retrospect is exhilarating. I could not claim full combat experience, maybe, but my reaction to the crisis had not been complete panic (as I had suspected it would be) and that gave me some measure of satisfaction.

  I needed my new found confidence, for it was as if we were entering a new and darker world.

  The landscape changed for one. We climbed through the ridge of dusty hills onto the plateau of Anatolia – a country of big skies, and big towns, but with an empty, dreary landscape in between. And here there was a sense of fear. You could feel it in the winds and dust that nagged at our clothing, and see it in the eyes of the peasants who from time to time shuffled past us.

  We pressed on long into the night after our encounter with Erkan and Nicodemes until we came to Amorion, a smallish town, but one that was bursting with folk. It proved impossible at that late hour to find a room for the night. There was no barracks and the one inn was full. We tried a few houses that we were told took visitors, but at the first two we failed to rouse an answer to our knocking, bar a yelled curse from one of the windows upstairs. We realised it was too late for strangers to be welcome in a town that was full of them.

  In the end we left Amorion again and lay down in the lee of a small chapel
just outside that guarded a graveyard to the side of the East Road. It was a cold night and we had felt too tired to light a fire and make a meal bar chewing on some dried sausage and sipping at a flask of wine.

  Dawn found us chill and stiff, and Bryennius shivered and coughed as we mounted once more and continued on our way. We had not gone far before I noticed him slump forward in his saddle and start to slip off his mount. I reached over and shook him, and he started and pulled himself upright.

  “Sorry, I just started to nod off,” he said, but his face was white with sweat, and his hands trembled on his reigns.

  “You look terrible.” I said.

  “I feel it. I must have caught a chill in the night.”

  We walked on for another mile, but his condition deteriorated until eventually I suggested we go back to Amorion to find somewhere to rest and he agreed.

  After searching through the town my gold eventually persuaded a taverner to set aside an empty store room for my companion, and there I installed him with a jug of water and a pile of blankets. There was no room for me there, and I had no desire to loiter in his company so I decided to leave the town once more and explore the country around. Amorion was full of people, some starving and sleeping in the filthy streets, and it stank of disease. I was worried that Bryennius had caught something worse than a cold, and had no desire to share it with him. Besides, there was nothing I could do for him further. He had to sweat it out over a day or two, and then with luck he would recover.

  I headed into the undulating fields north of Amorion with a vague idea to find a monastery that might provide more wholesome accommodation for my friend. It was pleasant at this time of year, with the wheat ripening to harvest time, and the meadows full of wild flowers in the high breeze.

  After some miles I started to think about where I would spend the night myself, and I noticed that the land folded downwards into a shallow valley not far ahead. I rode on, over the crest of a craggy rise, and there was a village by a river below, with a small fort on a rocky knoll nearby. The fort seemed to be occupied, judging from the thin feather of smoke that rose from one of its chimneys, so I decided to try out my military credentials and ask for some food and shelter there instead of paying for it in the village, which looked a down-at-heel sort of place.