by David Capel
So I trotted up to the castle gate, which was barred shut by a stout looking wooden door. I dismounted and hammered on it with my gloved fist and shouted for the guard. After a couple of minutes nothing had happened, and I was about to knock once more with the pommel of my sword, when a voice from above said “What do you want?”
I looked up to see a bare-headed face silhouetted against the sky.
“Open up, I’m an army officer!” I yelled.
The head disappeared, and after a few moments I heard a heavy scraping noise, as of a wooden post being moved away from the door, and a bolt was forced back. The door opened a crack and I recognised the profile of the balding man from the rampart. He was unshaven and scruffily dressed. You could hardly tell that he was a soldier.
He looked suspiciously at me for so long that I lost patience and barked “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you recognise a taxiarch when you see one? Where is your commanding officer? I need food and drink, and water for the horse.”
At that he opened the door wider, without saying anything, and I pushed inside, leading the horse after me, which could only just fit through the archway. There were half a dozen men, in various stages of undress, loafing around in a narrow courtyard with a tower and barracks building behind.
“Dimitri! A visitor!” called the doorman, and presently a short, fat man emerged from the tower with his tunic unbuttoned to the waist, holding a spoon. He looked like the cook of a bad inn, and the only way I could tell he was a centurion was by the small insignia embroidered on the collar of his tunic.
I told him that I needed provisions and he grunted that I was welcome to a meal, but that I should tether the horse outside. They did not want the beast fouling the yard. I could have told them that the yard could hardly be fouler already, for they were a slovenly bunch, but I held my tongue. There was something rather unsettling in the scene. There was such an obvious lack of discipline among the garrison that I could not be sure that the soldiers there would accept my authority. The men gazed at me in surly silence, and I quickly dismissed my idea of seeking accommodation there as I lead my horse outside again and tied it to a sapling that sprouted from the foot of the walls next to the gate.
One of the men had fetched a bowl of broth and a skin of brackish wine, which I consumed standing up. I thanked the men and departed as quickly as I could, trying not to show any sign of concern.
My next thought was to search for somewhere to stay in the village, which looked a miserable place, but I guessed I would be able to find a bed in one of the cottages there cheaply enough.
As I rode down the track I noticed a puff of dust not far off to the right, on the same side of the river as the village. There appeared to be a road or track that lead off to the north-east in that direction and a small group of horsemen were cantering along it towards the settlement. I spurred my own mount into a trot, hoping to intercept them and ask if they knew of anywhere suitable to stay for the night.
But they outpaced me and I was still a quarter of a mile away when they reached the small group of houses. The horsemen appeared to fan out in the village, and a moment later I heard the shout of raised voices. Several people ran out into the muddy street, and then, to my alarm I saw a thick tongue of smoke rise from one of the buildings.
Stupidly I walked my horse on towards the scene, and eventually came to a stop and watched the proceedings in amazement. The horsemen, some of them dismounted now, seemed to be herding the villagers into the open and then away from their cottages. I was close enough now to see the familiar gait and garb of the raiders – Turks for sure. One of them had a lighted torch which he thrust into the rafters of a house not two hundred paces from where I stood.
Recalling my wits I turned and spurred my horse into a gallop, back up to the fort, where I could see two or three heads bobbing at the crenellations, no doubt witnessing the raid on the village as I had.
When I reached the edifice, to my irritation the door was closed once more. Again I hammered at it, calling for attention. This time it opened almost immediately, and the fat commander stood there looking hardly more ready for the day than he had twenty minutes earlier.
“There is a raid on the village!” I panted.
He squinted past me at the scene below. “A raid?” he queried.
“Yes, a raid,” said I, exasperated. “You must have seen what’s going on. There are some Turks attacking your village.”
“Turks?”
“Yes, Turks. You know, those types who keep invading hereabouts. Your men must have seen them from the ramparts.”
He looked up at the walls, blinking stupidly. The heads had all disappeared.
“Come on man, we’ve got to do something about it. Those villagers need your help!”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I don’t know! You’re supposed to be garrisoning this place, aren’t you? Go and deal with the Turks! Drive them off! Kill them, if need be!” I was raising my voice as my anger took hold.
“Do you think that’s wise? I’m not sure…”
“Not sure?” I exploded, “Not sure? Right, Centurion, as a taxiarch, I am ordering you and your men to… to engage with the enemy forthwith. Get your weapons and command your men to parade out here at the double!”
He scratched his head and looked at me. “But Sir…”
“How many of there are you?” I interrupted.
“Err, fourteen.”
“There are only six of the enemy! If you don’t get you and all fourteen of your men out here instantly I will report you all as soon as I reach the army and have you arrested for cowardice and disobedience!”
I had no idea if I was using the right language or procedure, but my fury seemed to do the trick. He spun on his heel and yelled into the courtyard
“Right, all of you, out here, on the double!”
“And bring your weapons!” I shouted after him.
“Bring your weapons!” he repeated.
“But Dimitri…” I heard a voice mutter to him, but he cut it short.
“No time for that. Come on, you heard him. Out with you.”
There was a bustle of activity in the fort and I waited, fretting, for what seemed an age as the garrison readied itself. In the village a column of people seemed to be setting off to the north, chivvied along by a couple of bandits. Half of the houses were on fire.
One by one the soldiers shambled out of the fort, carrying spears for the most part. A few had shields and the centurion was buckling on a leather shirt with some mail armour sewn onto it. He at least had a sword. In all it was not an impressive sight, but the fifteen of us should be able to chase off the raiders and secure the village.
When I had counted them all out I drew my sword and waved it at the settlement, “come on, men,” and started trotting down the hill. After a few moments I looked behind and saw that there was no movement towards me from the troop of Roman soldiers.
“Come on,” I yelled for the twentieth time, and wheeled round and back towards them.
“Centurion, advance your men!”
I took up position behind and to the left of them to ensure that they complied. There was a reluctant movement forward as their officer waved them on. Together we advanced slowly towards the village and again I trotted ahead a little way to get a clearer view.
By this stage most of the houses in the village were on fire. The horsemen rode hither and thither setting the rest alight, while one of them chivvied the population on their way. One Turk dismounted and busied himself collecting various items into a pile in the middle of the village street. I trotted forward to a group of thorn bushes and watched the scene. From here I could hear the crackle of the flames and the cries of the villagers. Then the five horsemen seemed to look up at me as one. The man collecting the plunder mounted and I heard them calling to one another. They formed themselves into a group and started trotting towards me, with the sixth now following behind. I watched them until they must have been two
hundred paces away. I cleared my throat and drew my sword, and looked behind to prepare my men for the charge.
But to my horror they were not forming up just behind me as I had expected. For a moment it seemed as if they had disappeared altogether. Then I saw them, running like rabbits in the direction of their fort.
“Hey, come back!” I yelled at the top of my voice, but it might as well have been a whisper. The Romans ran on.
I turned towards them and shouted in fury “You cowards! There are only six of them!”
But then my anger turned to alarm, for I saw that the band of Turks was only a hundred yards away and had picked up speed. Fear gripped me as I saw the terrible danger that I was in. I spurred my mount and galloped after my fellow countrymen.
By the time I started they had covered most of the distance back to the fort. And by the time I reached it the last had escaped through the gate and slammed the stout wooden door.
“Let me in,” I cried. “Dimitri, open up for God’s sake”, and I hammered upon the gate from my saddle.
But there was no answer. I could hear the clang and crash of movement within, but no voice answered my cries. In mounting panic I shouted again, then looked behind me. The Turks were there, not far away now, and I knew that if the soldiers within did not open within seconds I would be caught.
With a shout of alarm I realised that they would not, and just had the presence of mind to spur my horse into movement once again. The beast slithered away from the fort just in time and we sprang into a gallop once more. I clung on to the horse trying to hug its neck while slapping its rump and kicking with my heels as hard as I could. I was shouting fearfully to myself and the garrison, incoherent with fright and rage. At any second I expected to hear the whooping noise of arrows, or, worse, feel the hacking bite of steel.
But perhaps my horse was bigger and fresher than the enemy’s, or else they simply had no interest in a lone fugitive, for when eventually I stole a glance behind they had already halted their pursuit, and stood balefully watching me as I sped across the fields.
Judging that I was at a safe distance I pulled my horse up and surveyed the scene, trembling at my narrow escape. There the Turks stood, not a hundred paces from the fort, where there was no sign of any Roman. Even the cooking fire seemed to have been extinguished. Behind them the village smoked, its people scattered and wandering into the hills beyond.
Seeing that I had stopped and was observing them, a couple of the raiders started lazily towards me again. With a leap of fear I turned and trotted away, and when I looked back saw that they had already stopped once more. As I made my way back towards Amorion, with no further thoughts of exploring the country, I reflected with amazement at the scene in which I had just played such an ignominious role.
It seemed extraordinary that such a small group of invaders should cause such damage with such impunity. We were miles, hundreds of miles, from the eastern border of the Empire. And I was utterly shocked by the behaviour of the garrison, not least in refusing me shelter. I had almost been killed by their cowardice!
In Amorion, Bryennius had made a surprisingly quick recovery. When I burst into his room to tell him about my experience he was already on his feet and looked rather startled to see me back so early. He told me that all he had needed was a rest and some warmth. When I told him about the incident with the raiders and he shrugged his shoulders.
“This sort of thing has been happening for years now. The theme troops are just not capable of dealing with the situation. We’ll have to be cautious on the road east, though I suspect a small band of raiders will avoid armed men. They’re looking for easier pickings.”
“They didn’t want to avoid me and the garrison. That was fifteen of us in all!”
“Perhaps. But I still think the main road will be safe enough. We may be able to travel with another group for a while. Safety in numbers.”
**
Yet we were to discover that my brush with the Turks was part of a familiar pattern all across the high plains of Anatolia. Setting out the next day, we travelled for two weeks along the highway towards Cappadocian Caesarea, with Bryennius hurrying us along to make our meeting with Comnenus’ agent from Antioch.
Everywhere were the signs of chaos and alarm – towns crowded with refugees, burning fields and homesteads, beggars along the roads, and horsemen in the distance. The road was crowded with people, for it was one of the main highways across Anatolia. There were soldiers like us, in small troops or larger bands, marching to the gathering conflict in the East. Groups of monks, haggard and bearded, hurried to find safer monasteries in the West. Peasants dragged their pathetic families and meagre belongings aimlessly along the road, bleating for alms or looking sullenly and resentfully at the soldiers and men of God who passed them by.
That tortured landscape was unforgettable – the summer heat and dust that clung to us, the wisps of smoke and the smell of burning, the putrescent scent of decay. The wheat fields, laced with poppies, were ripening, but the wide meadows were bereft of livestock, and wild flowers bloomed in their place, beautiful but untamed. For days, it seemed, we travelled in silence, grimly nodding at those we met, a sense of depression and despair overshadowing our spirits. Everywhere were the signs of a crumbling military edifice, for the Asian provinces had been established as for a defensive war long ago to protect the empire from the Arabs.
But the forts were abandoned, the road rutted and broken, and the cisterns that watered the armies of the great Basil on his eastern campaigns cracked and leaking. I recall filling my water skin at one of these three of four days east of Amorion. I was leaning into the cavity, reaching to find the cool water in its shadowed sanctuary when I noticed what first I took to be a large leaf. I wondered at it for a moment, for it was a treeless landscape, when there was a ripple of light caused by someone moving next to me, and then I saw that it was a severed hand, floating half submerged and rotting in the still dark water. I retched and scrabbled to pull myself out. From then on we drank our fill only from running streams, even though it sometimes took an hour to leave the road and find them.
By chance we came across a group of Frankish mercenaries who had travelled up from Iconium and the coast at Attaleia. We met them as they joined the highway from the South and they were happy to travel in our company in return for guidance. This was my first encounter with the famous knights of the West, though of course I was familiar with the Varangians who guarded the Emperor in the City.
It was then that I learnt from Bryennius of the great enmity between these northerners, for the Norman Franks had lately stolen the kingdom of Britain, many of whose best soldiers had fled to take service as Varangians with the Emperor.
Bryennius clearly did not like or trust these freebooters, though he was content to travel with them for the time being. He said that they were no better than the Turks, and would betray us in the end. In this, of course, he was right, but I must say that I liked them from the start.
This group was on its way to join one Russel de Ballieul, a mercenary commander who had been recruited by the Emperor. Only their captain spoke any Greek, and the others droned away in their sonorous tongue. I found myself seeking out their company increasingly. For some reason Bryennius had withdrawn into himself once again. I assumed that his surliness was caused by the presence of the Franks and the depressing scenes around us.
For my part this was all the more reason to seek out more cheerful company. For the Franks were bold and carefree. They sang as we trotted along the road, and challenged each other to feats of horsemanship and other contests to pass the journey. It was very noticeable how heavily armed they were, with iron ringed hauberks, and heavy helmets and shields. Their horses were very powerful, but the Franks spared them the burdens of the road by loading their gear onto mules, which sometimes they would ride themselves to give their chargers a complete rest.
I certainly felt a lot safer in their company. But if their fearless contempt for the Turks raised my
spirits, their attitude towards the Romans left something to be desired. They seemed to regard themselves as being on some glorified adventure in which the people and land around them were merely there to provide a notional purpose for the game, but were intrinsically unimportant. Perhaps the best analogy is that they thought of us Romans as a flock of sheep which they had been hired to protect against the Turkish wolves. They regarded us as generally weak, stupid and entirely without honour or worth. I soon concluded that Bryennius was right – if the circumstances were to change, they would turn on the sheep themselves and use us for their benefit.
Despite this, I still liked them. They regarded me as something of a figure of fun, but welcomed me into their group good naturedly enough. Bryennius they ignored. Part of me agreed with their attitude. My recent experiences had taught me a similar contempt for my own kind, or at least the snivelling excuse for soldiers that we had encountered on our journey. The truth was that the Franks had no real comprehension of the true glory of Rome. They called us ‘Greeks’, after our language, and the Emperor ‘King of the Greeks’, as if we were just another nation defined by what we said and what we looked like, a people among many in the barbarous Babel that they came from.
This group had come by ship straight from Italy, and had never beheld the majesty of the City of Constantine with its impenetrable walls and the uncountable masts of its fleet at anchor in the Golden Horn.
One moment stands out in my memory that captures the chaotic strangeness of that journey. It was dusk, and we made camp by the roadway, us and the Normans and a rag tag tail of travellers who had gathered around us, seeking the shelter of our weapons as night approached. The Franks had carelessly stabled their mounts in a roadside church that might have been abandoned, but was by no means derelict. No one had dared to protest.
