Sword of Justice

by Christian Cameron

  The despote raised an eyebrow. ‘I have not dismissed you,’ he said gently. His men put their hands on their swords.

  I bowed yet again. ‘Your Grace, I am from England, where we prize plain speaking – even from kings.’

  ‘Yes,’ the despote said. ‘I know of Englishmen.’

  I nodded. ‘So, my lord, I don’t really need your permission to ride to Didymoteichon.’ I smiled. I tried to sound like Hawkwood. ‘You do not own this ground. You ride armed for fear of the Turks. I can do as I please. And you’d have to come down off your mountain to stop me.’

  The despote turned first white, and then red. His skin was tanned brown, and yet the colour change was plain as plain.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ muttered Nerio. ‘This is diplomacy.’

  I shrugged. ‘I am perfectly willing to be reasonable,’ I said. ‘This is strictly business, Your Grace. If you delay me, you cost me money, and I will take action.’

  ‘I can put three thousand men in the field to stop you,’ the despote said.

  ‘Perhaps you could,’ I agreed. Giannis was a little white around the nostrils as he translated. ‘But wouldn’t it be easier to accept a small tribute from us and let us pass?’

  Francesco bowed. ‘Your Grace, it is nearly night, and we are all hungry and tired. Sir Guglielmo speaks, perhaps, too strongly, but surely none of us want such a solution …’

  ‘Go,’ said the despote.

  We rode back down the pass, and Nerio turned to me in the ruddy light of the Greek sunset and his smile was not a happy one. ‘Remind me not to use you as a negotiator,’ he said.

  ‘This from you?’ I asked. ‘You were about to come it the high and mighty Florentine—’

  ‘You told him you’d burn his farmers out!’ Nerio said. ‘I would merely have hinted that I could burn out his farmers. Your way is crass.’

  ‘All Englishmen are barbarians,’ I agreed.

  ‘He really has no choice but to let us pass,’ the prince said. ‘I have his father’s seal.’ He shrugged. ‘William, if there are four hundred of them, they can’t have all their horses up on that mountain top. I would esteem it a favour if you would ask John to find their horses. It is not an order; you and Nerio have to live with the consequence of what we do here.’

  I called for John, and he came, and when I laid out my request, he shook his head.

  ‘Let me do this my way,’ he said. He explained, and Nerio laughed.

  ‘Mongol diplomacy,’ he said. Prince Francesco laughed too.

  In the morning, we met with the despote in the same place. This time, the prince accompanied us, and six of the prince’s men-at-arms, and John. We also brought water and a small shelter and some stools. The despote dismounted too and joined us in the shade.

  The conversation repeated the pattern of the evening before: etiquette followed by conversation. But the despote didn’t show any sign of changing his mind.

  ‘If I let you through this pass,’ he said finally, ‘you are in the heartland of Thrace, and if the good Sir Guglielmo threatens this valley and its farms, imagine what damage he can do to my heartland?’

  He smiled at me. He was a very intelligent man, and he had considered what I had said. Interesting.

  ‘My lord,’ the prince said, ‘we will not do you any harm.’

  ‘How can I trust you?’ he cried, throwing his hands in the air.

  The prince glanced at John.

  John stepped forward and tossed a twist of indigo blue yarn on the table, and then bowed.

  The despote looked at the yarn.

  One of his guards looked at me. He muttered something in Greek, gave me a hard stare, and many hands flew for hilts. Prince Francesco leaned back and ran his fingers thoughtfully through his beard. ‘We didn’t steal your horse herd last night,’ he said.

  ‘What makes you think you could have done such a thing?’ the despote asked.

  John the Kipchak laughed his deep laugh. ‘Lord, every one of your horses has this yarn tied to its tail.’

  ‘Christe Pantokrator,’ the despote’s brother swore. He shot to his feet and went out into the beating sun.

  He came back in, shaking his head. He threw a bit of yarn on our little folding table in front of the despote.

  ‘It is true,’ he swore, in Greek.

  The Prince of Lesvos smiled very much the way Hawkwood might have.

  And, as it proved, we paid two hundred gold florins as a ‘tax’ to pass, and the despote ‘allowed’ us to ride on. A dozen of his stradiotes shadowed us for the next two days.

  Prince Francesco gave John a belt covered in gold and silver fittings which he still wears.

  And we came, at last, to Didymoteichon.

  Didymoteichon means ‘the city with two walls’, and it sits on a steep hill at the juncture of two good rivers. The Kantakouzenoi built, or rebuilt, the fortified town to be their capital, and then they refortified it, making it even stronger, about the time of Crécy. But in the year of Poitiers, the Ottomanids took it without too much trouble, despite all the walls and the garrison. The Turks took Adrianopolis, too – the third city of the empire – the only city in Thrace that had resisted the Slavs, the Bulgars, the Huns, and all the other waves of barbarians that had washed through Greece except Thessaloniki, of which more soon. The Turks called Adrianopolis ‘Edirne’ and made it their capital city in Europe; it still is, to this day. But Didymoteichon was their second city, and it has something wondrous about it. Perhaps it is the height of the acropolis, or citadel, perhaps the strength of the walls, the profusion of Christian churches even now, the beauty of the red-tiled roofs, or the richness of the farms in the well-watered valley. I took one look at it and wondered why we’d wasted our siege engines on Mesembria and Gallipoli when we could have restored this gem to Christendom. It was the second place that I ever saw that I wanted for my own – as good, in its way, as Methymna on Lesvos.

  I never got the chance to see inside the walls, though, for the Turks – although they met us at the border and escorted us with a degree of friendliness that contrasted sharply with Matthew Asen and his little army – did not trust us in the town. They did let us know, in gifts and body language, that they wanted Prince Francesco’s peace treaty: the message of our raids had been heard, loud and clear. Or so it seemed.

  I had most of two days riding alongside Holgai, the Turkish captain of our escort, and during that time I understood why John had found our operations in Bulgaria so funny. Here were the Turks – perhaps a hundred leagues from Mesembria, or a little more. They were gradually conquering the Greeks; they were the infidel enemy. Yet we’d spent our treasure and blood fighting the Bulgarians.

  Even the Turks were puzzled.

  On the other hand, the Turks were all too well aware that their army was locked in Asia, and that we’d just reconquered the whole of the Gallipoli peninsula. It was a little unnerving just how much Holgai knew: he knew where I had fought, who I had taken captive; he knew all about our quarrel with the despote.

  The local pasha, yet another Suleiman, suddenly changed his course and made a great pretence of rage, demanding that we return all of the towns we’d taken on the peninsula before he would meet with Prince Francesco. And the prince told us that, for once, he was negotiating from a position of strength, with a fleet offshore and the potential for an endless torrent of green-clad crusaders crawling around the shores of Europe and Asia.

  We left our escort at the gates of Didymoteichon, and they assumed we’d camp in the ditch, where they’d prepared a market for us to buy food.

  Instead, we moved almost a mile to a hill that Sir Giannis knew and made camp, and Fiore and Nerio decided between them that we would fortify it. The hill had some water from a spring and its own ring of old walls. We raised our tents and pavilions, and on the first night, we set to work digging. Even the boys wove baskets to be fil
led with dirt, and every shovelful was studded with bits of the past: old pottery, and bits of iron, and one of the archers found a gold ring with a seal, a woman’s head with snakes.

  We lost a night’s sleep, but, by morning, we were virtually impregnable, with trees and plashed greenery and new earthworks all along the lower slopes.

  That afternoon, a hundred Turks in silk kaftans and glittering maille swept by the base of the hill with many a shout, and after they left, a haughty Turkish officer arrived and ordered the works dismantled and all our weapons handed over to him.

  Marc-Antonio, who had some Turkish and a good deal of Greek by then, and Sir Giannis, whose Greek and Turkish were our best, came to me because Prince Francesco was asleep. I was awake, and fully armed, and I mounted Gabriel, my new warhorse, and rode down the ridge to our ‘gate’, where Rob Stone and Ewan the Scot had taken position in tall oak trees behind screens of woven leaves. Both men were quite expert at this, and had cunningly pruned the branches to give them clear shots out into the plain before our gate. Hector Lachlan had the watch; Pierre Lapot was leaning against the base of a tree, sharpening an axe.

  I felt as safe as a man could, riding out to parley with the Infidel. I took Marc-Antonio and Sir Giannis, caught Ewan’s eye to make sure he was covering me, and rode slowly down the last of the hill to where the Turkish captain sat on a beautiful golden horse with dark legs and mane.

  ‘He asks if you have come to surrender,’ Sir Giannis said. ‘I can’t tell whether he is mocking us or merely trying to be funny.’

  ‘Tell him I will be happy to accept his surrender,’ I said. I was armed cap-à-pie, and my new helmet had a catch to hold the visor open, an innovation I valued extremely highly. I had my best plumes in my helmet and my brigandine’s velvet was clean and brushed. Gabriel glowed with magnificent vitality.

  I smiled.

  The Turk grinned. He said something to his lieutenant, who was every bit as red-headed as I am myself. They both laughed; it didn’t appear bad-tempered.

  The Turk leaned forward, crossing his hands on his saddle-bow, relaxed, both hands showing, no weapon. He spoke at length, periodically meeting my eye.

  ‘He says no, he doesn’t feel like surrendering. He tells me his name. He is Everenos Bey, commander of one hundred knights and a horsetail lord. He tells me of his father and the piety of his mother.’

  ‘Ask him, where is Sir Holgai, who led our escort?’ I asked.

  The Turkish captain nodded, as if well pleased that I had asked. ‘Holgai has gone to Edirne with a message,’ he responded through Sir Giannis, although I understood him well enough.

  ‘In that case, tell him I am William Gold, also a horsetail lord and commander of one hundred; tell him that I am a volunteer with the Order and my sister is a famous religious woman.’ I smiled. I’d never had cause to mention my sister to a Turk before. But I mimicked his ease; I handed my gauntlets to Marc-Antonio and then my helmet, and when I pulled off my helmet, unhinging the cheekpieces of the newfangled thing, both Turkish officers smiled.

  I pointed at my red hair and at Everenos’s lieutenant’s head.

  ‘He says, you two could be brothers.’ Sir Giannis was laughing.

  And indeed, we might have had the same mother and father; he was a big man, like me, and his beard was as red as mine. He was younger, perhaps twenty or twenty-one.

  ‘Tell him that I do not know my brother’s name,’ I said.

  Sir Giannis must have said more than that. But the Turk nodded and barked something which I caught.

  ‘He is called Timurtash, an Eastern name. He must mean Eastern Turk.’

  I bowed.

  Timurtash inclined his head.

  Everenos spoke at length.

  Sir Giannis shrugged. ‘He says, now that he meets you and you are so cheerful, he is sorry to bear bad news, but his lord the Sultan and the governor of the city require all the Christians to disarm and cease to fortify their camp.’

  I had on my hip de Charny’s dagger. I thought about it for a moment, but spontaneity is everything in chivalry. I untied the lace which held it to my belt, and held it out to the Turk.

  ‘Tell him to think of this as a symbol of all our weapons, which we offer in bond. Tell him this weapon belonged to a great warrior, a saint among warriors, and I would never dishonour it. Tell him that I will demand it back, but offer it in surety for our good behaviour.’ I held the dagger out, glinting in the sun.

  De Charny had fought the Turks at Smyrna.

  Giannis’s voice went on. I could understand a few words, but not many. I could see the surprise, and some indecisiveness, on the Turk’s face. He looked at the dagger; then, as spontaneous, perhaps, as my gesture, he took it. He drew it, looked at it, and sheathed it.

  ‘He says, this is not what his master ordered, but he will see if it will do.’

  He saluted with a wink, and he and his Judas-headed lieutenant rode off in a swirl of dust.

  I turned Gabriel and walked back up the path to our ‘gate’, where Nerio lounged in full armour against a tree, his charger, saddled, in his hand. Fiore was against another tree, cleaning his nails with a rondel dagger, a terrible habit he’d picked up from Nerio.

  ‘You may yet make a diplomat,’ Nerio said. ‘What did you tell them?’

  I explained, and Fiore frowned. ‘But …’ he said. ‘De Charny’s dagger?’

  I admit that in the aftermath I felt foolish, like a man who spends too much money on a horse in the market, or who tells a girl he loves her … and isn’t sure he means it.

  But, on balance, they seemed people of honour, these Turks, and I wanted to … challenge them, I suppose. Challenge them to behave honourably. And I’ll comment, from years with the Turks and some of the other easterners – Kurds, and Syrians, and of course Mongols – that they all share this trait. They are, most of them, deeply honourable men, but you must summon them to it – like a challenge, or calling out. Perhaps this is because they do not see Franks as men of honour; I have seen Franks behave very badly in Outremer. But, for whatever reason, my experience is that when you offer honour, you receive it, in England and in Outremer.

  Be that as it may, we spent a day resting. The farmers, who were for the most part Greeks, were afraid of us, but we convinced a few to open a little market at the foot of our hill and Prince Francesco insisted that we pay in hard silver, and our little market grew rapidly.

  The next day was Sunday, and Father Angelo said Mass for the Latins, and then he read the Bible during the afternoon, and I remember sitting in a pleasant near-doze, listening to the story of Mary and Martha. Father Angelo read the story in Latin, which I understood well enough, but then he repeated the tale in French, and then Italian. The archers who spoke French, like Ewan, then passed the tale on to those with no French, like Tom Hicks, a big lout from Southwark who was the worst archer of the lot, but a hard worker. Likewise, John the Kipchak, who knew some Italian and some French, passed the story to his mates in his own tongue; Sir Giannis retold the story to our Greek camp boys, so that we were the Company of Babel, which is what the prince christened us.

  Sir Richard Percy shook his head when the story was over. ‘If I died, and Sir Jesus came too late to save me, my sister would ha’ gi’ him a piece of her mind, I ha’ no doubt.’

  That got a laugh.

  ‘But it was all for the greater glory of God,’ Father Angelo said.

  Sir Richard shrugged. ‘Sir Lazarus still died, Pater, and that can’t ha’ been any kind o’ pleasance, eh? And then, he was dead full three days.’

  ‘Four,’ said Rob Stone, shaking his head. ‘He stank!’

  ‘An’ all I can wonder is, what did Lazarus think? Were he in Hell, Pater? Waiting to be raised? The fear … he must ha’ suffered. Like a man dying on a battlefield, knowing no man is coming to help him and the ravens is on the way.’

 
‘But Jesus came for him …’ Father Angelo said.

  ‘Why does God need all that glory from us?’ Rob Stone asked. ‘I mean, he’s God.’

  Instead of flaring up like many priests I’ve known, Father Angelo laughed. ‘I thought this was a company of lances? And it turns out I’ve fallen into a nest of theologians.’

  Master Stone stood his ground. ‘You priests tell us these things. Well, I think on ’em.’

  ‘As do I,’ Sir Richard said.

  I nodded. ‘As do I,’ I confessed.

  Father Angelo fingered his beard. ‘I have only been with you a winter, but I see this is not as I imagined. Is it, perhaps, that men in imminent fear of death spend more time thinking of religious things?’

  ‘No,’ Fiore said. I hadn’t even realised he was present. ‘No, Pater. It is this company.’

  ‘It’s the Holy Sepulchre,’ said l’Angars.

  I met his eye. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Ahh,’ Father Angelo said.

  Pierre Lapot scratched his scraggly beard, which he was now growing in double points, like an image of Satan. ‘We’re going to be the most holy company of mercenaries in Italy,’ he said.

  The next day, my new friend Everenos Bey rode to our barrier and announced that we would be received by the representatives of the Sultan, who was in Edirne, and that there would be games ‘in the Frankish manner’ on the following three days. A train arrived from Edirne that afternoon; it passed unmolested under our little mountain, and I think it was offered to us as a provocation, in case we meant harm. Or perhaps not, as it turned out. The Sultan’s officer, Angrium Pasha, came with that train, as well as a treasury to pay the troops at Didymoteichon, and a long line of merchants.

  That evening, two men in long gowns appeared at the barrier of our camp with servants. They asked for me by name, and I rode down the hill to meet with them.

  They proved to be Jews of Edirne: a teacher, which they call a rabbi, and a merchant, his brother.

  The merchant was obsequious, in a way that always irritates me; when a man is servile in a way that suggests that he doesn’t actually believe you are superior in any way. It was a little like being mocked.