The odd thing is that, in another mood, they will placidly discuss whether it will be your sons, or some other barbarians, who will eventually batter a way in. Most things in this fallen world are destined to destruction, and the great city is no exception. It is engraved on the heart of every Roman that one day it will fall (unlike the true Rome, which will endure to the Day of Judgement). There are countless tales to this effect, but the most convincing is that a famous necromancer, Apollonius of Tyana, buried under the Column of Constantine the Great a list of all future Emperors, and the list is more than halfway completed. To my mind this unescapable future lends dignity to Roman warfare. It is more honourable to fight stubbornly in a lost battle than to charge, cheering, to fore-ordained victory. But I seem to have been led away from my story.
We were marching in company with the bands of Hellas, who were also to join the Emperor for the great campaign to the eastward. The Strategus of Thrace had been left in charge of the depleted garrison of Europe; but we had frightened the nomads of the Danube, and it was unlikely they would raid next year. When we were within two miles of the gates we could clearly make out those amazing defences, five miles long, three walls in depth; we dismounted to prepare for our ride through the streets. For us Franks that meant no more than wiping the mud off our shields and rubbing up our bridles; we wore full mail, but naturally we did not attempt to burnish all those little scales. But for the Roman sergeants it was quite a business to put on the right clothing, and even more difficult to make sure they were not wearing something forbidden by the regulations; every warrior likes to show a trophy taken from the foe, to prove he has really been in action, and many of them had muffled their ears with Patzinak fur-caps, or swathed their thighs in thick barbarian breeches. But the Emperor, who pays his soldiers all the year round and gives them horse and weapons, considers that in return for this paternal care he has the right to supervise their daily lives; what they should wear on parade is laid down in writing, and money is stopped from their pay if they cannot produce everything they should possess; while it is a grave offence to appear in civilian or barbarian apparel, even if the correct equipment is underneath.
Every sergeant must wear a leather corselet fortified with long but narrow plates of polished steel; this is nearly as strong as Frankish mail, but it only reaches his waist and elbows; on his head is a polished steel cap, but there is no hauberk and the corselet is cut low on the shoulders; this is comfortable in the heat of Asia, but it exposes a vital part of the body. On his feet are boots of soft leather reaching to the knee, easier to walk in than our pointed shoes and padded chausses; in fact a very sensible mode which some of our men copied. His legs above the knee are covered with thin woollen breeches, which are also comfortable on foot but allow the saddle to chafe on a long ride. His weapons are a long sword hanging from a baldric, a bow and a sheaf of arrows in a double quiver tied to the saddle, and a small round buckler. Officers carry no bow, but a very deadly iron mace hangs from the saddletree as a badge of rank, so that strange soldiers will recognise their authority. But I have not yet mentioned the most important part of their dress, which gives them more trouble than armour or weapons; each man must wear a coloured tuft of wool on his helmet, and a coloured cloak fluttering behind where it gathers mud and cannot keep him warm. Each band wears these things dyed in a uniform colour, and the effect as they wheel into line is undoubtedly impressive; but, as I said, they seem to collect all the mud or dust in the air, and they are never clean enough to satisfy the officers. If a man has brushed his cloak really clean, which is more work than grooming a horse, the officer will probably condemn it as too faded beside its neighbours.
You can see from all this that the prospect of riding through the city, under the eye of the Emperor, was more trying to our comrades than a skirmish with the Patzinaks.
Eventually the officers were satisfied that their men were as smart as they would ever be. I heard one say that since we had been in the field all summer the spectators would make allowances. But his companion replied that the Varangians of the Guard, who never left the cobblestones of the city, spent eight hours a day polishing their axes and never made allowances for anybody.
It was still the grey daylight of a winter afternoon when we entered the Gate of Adrianople; for seven miles we rode through the wide straight streets of the incomparable city, while burgesses thronged the windows and the narrow pavements. Then the Roman soldiers were dismissed to the enormous barracks which lie round the great palace, but we Franks were ferried across the harbour and quartered in roomy stone-built barracks in the suburb of Galata. In those days it was not the policy of the Roman government to allow foreign mercenaries within the walls of the city; except the dismounted axemen of the Varangian Guard, who found sentries for the palace and did not march on campaign. These were Northmen from Russia, with a few English exiles who had fled from our Duke William, and the theory was that they made good sentries because they were brave warriors but at the same time too stupid to conspire against the Emperor. They look very fine, in gilded armour with masses of jewellery, and of course a dismounted axeman is well equipped to guard an inner door. They turned up their noses at the shabby state of our mail, and we regarded them with awe, for they were reputed invincible. When I heard, a few years ago, that the first time they took the field they were utterly defeated outside Durazzo by our Count Bohemund I had to remind myself pretty sharply that I am a monk, who may never rejoice in the death of Christian men.
We lived comfortably in our barracks; our rations were provided punctually and in full, for the Emperor employs a number of honest and competent clerks in his Treasury, who see that his money does not trickle away in commissions and bribes; these clerks never draw the sword, but they contribute greatly to the strength of the State.
As I said earlier, the Romans do not like their merchants to sail to foreign ports where there is no Roman tax-gatherer; yet the city is the centre of the Christian world, and churches in Denmark and Ireland must get their altar-furniture from its workshops. These luxuries are brought westward by Italian sailors, so there is a large Italian colony by the harbour; of course they need a church of the Latin rite, and provosts from their home towns to settle disputes when they cheat one another. Nobody feels safe shut in by the walls of a foreign city; the Italians live together in the suburb of Galata. We found a good Frankish armourer, and since there were also Frankish wineshops and brothels our men had no occasion to cross the harbour and enter the city.
When we arrived the Emperor was in his palace, but soon afterwards he returned to his army, far eastwards in Asia. We were to follow when the grass grew in spring, and in summer we would chase the infidel Turks over the rim of the world. But one of our knights, who went to stare at the great Church of the Holy Wisdom, noticed that the guard on the palace was still at full strength; someone else saw a purple litter in one of the main streets; my lord was puzzled, and when he inquired the local Italians told him there were two Emperors of the Romans, or rather two and a half, for the Empress-mother also enjoyed great power. This second Emperor and his mother never left the city.
My lord was not very interested. This was just another queer custom in a land of queer customs. But my lady, who always frowned if someone said ‘Bloody foreigners, no telling how they will behave’, thought the situation should be investigated. One evening, when I was explaining to my lord that the armourer demanded high wages because in this great city money did not go very far, she took me up.
‘In this great city, indeed,’ she said crossly. ‘What the Hell do you or any of these bumpkins know about the city? We have been here six weeks, but we have seen nothing except the Hippodrome and Holy Wisdom. Our Emperor, the one who pays us, may have fled because his colleagues sought to slay him; or the people may be about to revolt, as we know they do sometimes. We eat Roman meat and drink Roman wine, and allow these Romans to wander all over our quarters where they could cut our throats any day, and we none of us have the faint
est idea of what goes on in a Roman head. We should bar off part of the barracks and make it into a private castle.’
‘What’s that?’ said my lord, smiling cheerfully; my lady expressed herself strongly, as usual, but as usual she spoke wisely. ‘You told me, my dear, outside Thessalonica, to make up my mind once and for all to trust these Romans. Why have you altered your opinion?’
‘Because I have two sons and a daughter, too young to defend themselves or to run away. The soldiers who follow Bryennius are certainly our comrades, but there may be others who think differently.’
‘That is true. Within a few miles of this barracks are hundreds of thousands of Romans, and it would be odd if they were all agreed on every question. There have been conspiracies in the past, and there may be one brewing now; but I have made up my mind to keep out of plots in this strange country. Otherwise the plotters may persuade the Frankish mercenaries to do all the killing, and then leave them to carry back the empty pitcher.’ (This was a slang expression, current among our sergeants.)
‘But we ought to know more,’ my lady persisted. ‘Can’t you pay a Roman officer to tell us what they think of the Emperor, or send spies to hear the gossip in the taverns?’
‘That’s no good, my dear. The informer could tell us anything he chose, since there would be no checking his story. As to sending spies, who can we send? Young Roger, you at least speak the language. Could you pass for a native Roman?’
‘No, my lord,’ I answered regretfully. ‘I can’t manage their fiddling little eating-prongs, and most Romans who dress as well as I do can read and write.’
‘You must be observant, or you would not have noticed so much,’ said my lord with his usual kindness. ‘But I agree that you could not pass as a Roman. Language isn’t everything. What marks a man as a stranger are all sorts of little personal habits, how he handles his money, what he stares at in the street. But at least you can overhear what they say. You could go out openly, as a young Frank who happens to speak some Greek, and chat in a wineshop about the present state of the country. You will not learn any secrets, but they would tell you the news.’
‘Someone with a sense of humour might tell him very startling news,’ my lady objected.
‘I have a better idea,’ I said. ‘I make my confession once a fortnight. Next Saturday I shall go to Holy Wisdom and find a Greek father to shrive me. Give me two pieces of gold for an offering, and I will chat with the priest afterwards.’
My lady agreed. We would not learn more than was known to any porter at the docks, but at least we would no longer be stumbling through a completely unknown world. And a priest who had just absolved me would not fill me with a lot of nonsense as a practical joke.
So on Saturday I rode three miles through packed streets to the Church of Holy Wisdom, (a very remarkable building, but you will all see it next summer, if God wills, and I spare you a description). After I had been shriven I took my confessor aside and offered a gold piece for the altar. I kept the second piece; that was not dishonest; my lord knew I would, otherwise I would not have asked for two; my inquiries deserved a reward, and often it is more tactful to take your reward than to demand it. Then I sat down with the priest in the porch of the church, where you can see the Hippodrome and the palace and the beginning of Coppersmith’s Street, the finest view in that city of fine views; and he told me as much of the recent history of the Empire as a foreigner could understand.
This was what I told my lord that same evening: the great weakness of the Roman Empire was the lack of a rule of succession. When an Emperor died, in theory his successor was appointed by the Senate and Army; if he left a grown son there need be no argument, and in fact any relative of the Imperial house had a fairly strong claim. But sometimes, in fact much too often, the commanders of different armies fought among themselves for power. This was seen to be a disadvantage, and to avoid it they had hit on the device of appointing a co-Emperor, who did not rule, but arranged an orderly succession when his senior partner died. This co-Emperor might be a child, or even a woman. At present the Romans had both. The last Emperor, Constantine Ducas, had left a young son, who now reigned as the Emperor Michael though he was too young to rule. His mother, the Empress Eudocia, had very sensibly married the most dangerous potential usurper, the Domestic of the Schools or commander of the guard, our paymaster Romanus Diogenes. So he held, by right of his wife, a pretty strong title; but young Michael Ducas would one day claim the throne in right of his father. If both Emperors lived there would probably be civil war in about ten years.
But the situation was even more complicated. There were, as I had surmised at Thessalonica, two parties in the state. The army of regular sergeants was extremely expensive. The great nobles, who held high command in it and saw their estates protected from barbarians, thought it worth the expense. But the clerks of the Treasury, and those citizens who never saw a raider, complained that the country was ruined by high taxes. Constantine Ducas had listened to the clerks and reduced the army; but his predecessor, the Emperor Isaac Comnenus, had been a great soldier, beloved by the army; he had abdicated to enter religion, and he left no sons; but the soldiers hoped that one day his young nephews would attain power and make those greedy merchants pay up. Meanwhile Romanus Diogenes, to whom we had given our fealty, must soon win a great victory to secure his position; for though he was himself a good soldier he represented the taxpayers’ party, and his underpaid army was discontented.
My lord tried to follow the outlandish names, and then summed up: ‘Don’t puzzle my poor brains with a soldiers’ party and a taxpayers’ party. There are no peaceful taxpayers in Balliol. The house of Ducas holds the Empire, the house of Comnenus held it once and hopes to hold it again; like Carolingians and Capetians in France in the old days. My own lord, the present Emperor, is guardian of the Ducas heir. I suppose that puts him on the Ducas side, at least until young Michael comes of age. I shall follow his banner. I don’t understand these people well enough to meddle in their politics. If they start a civil war I may demand higher pay as the price of not changing sides, but I shall not carry the threat into effect. A mercenary who sells himself to the enemy is usually betrayed by his new employer, with the applause of every honest man.’
‘That is wise,’ said my lady. ‘It is better to take the honourable course, so long as you don’t really lose by it. But there is one thing I don’t understand. If our Emperor represents the house of Ducas, which is supported by the Treasury, and the merchants, why must he win a great victory to make his throne secure?’
‘The priest explained that,’ I answered. ‘The late Emperor Constantine might reduce the army because he did not live among his soldiers. The Strategi of the Themes held the frontiers and the Emperor sat in his city and did justice. But these new barbarians, the Turks, have broken the eastern frontier; the Emperor must lend his army against them, and unless he proves himself a good general the soldiers may set up another commander. Besides, he is not himself a Ducas; the citizens support him, but only until young Michael comes of age. He must make a great name in the next ten years, or he will be compelled to enter religion like his predecessor Isaac Comnenus.’
‘Ah, there is our weakness,’ the lady Matilda said quickly. ‘We follow the Emperor in possession, the wisest course for strangers. But he is only a temporary Regent, who must win a victory to secure his power. Leaders who must win a victory sometimes lead very desperate charges.’
‘Very well, my dear,’ said my lord. ‘Before you remind me that I am responsible for the safety of three little Balliols I promise of my own free will to look very carefully before I follow the Emperor into the thick of the foe.’
‘I wish you would,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘But that red hair of yours gets into your eyes when you hear the war-cry. Have you ever taken a pull at the reins when the foe rode to meet you?’
‘Once, sweetheart, in Sicily, when Roger fitzTancred set the example.’
‘Exactly. Then you halted for ten w
hole minutes, while the leaders were discussing the best line of retreat. When you charged alone the infidels fled. But don’t think you can do it every time you try.’
I wandered away to a corner of the room. My lady was no longer talking politics, she was making love to her husband. Messer Roussel was proud of that charge, which was in fact a very gallant feat of arms; whenever he was depressed by the knowledge that he was only a mercenary, who must kill his lord’s enemies without inquiring into the rights of the quarrel, he would comfort himself by recalling that once he had been a knight-errant, fighting the infidel for the love of God. My lady reminded him whenever she wished to cheer his spirits. She loved him, which was understandable, though unusual between husband and wife; for no one could know Messer Roussel without loving him. What was strange was that he in return loved his large, masculine, sunburned wife. I think it had begun as a punctilio of honour, when he was disappointed of the Lombard town which should have been her dower; she was his lady and the mother of his children; he thought it unknightly to let the world see he had married her only to get possession of a fortress; he had to pretend affection, and then, because although she was plain she had wit, good manners, and a sense of honour, in time the pretence had become reality. Now the battered adventurers cooed to one another like two adulterers, not a wedded man and wife.
Presently Messer Roussel called me. ‘Come here, young Roger, we are not telling secrets. Matilda is set on finding out more about our Emperor, and she wants us to pay social calls on Roman gentlemen! You must do all the talking, unless I ask the Treasury to lend me an official linguist. Do you think we shall be received as friends, and will it be very boring if we are?’
The Lady for Ransom Page 5
