CHAPTER 20
Rome, Thursday 26th June, 1096
Lothar walked the narrow streets of the city with a sullen glower on his face.
It was bustling and manic, with trade at all hours of the day and night. Men bellowing commands at the port, hawkers at the market, fishermen shouting about their latest catches, and preachers at every street corner added to the cacophony, in Lothar’s embittered view. All the business of the town was conducted at such a volume, he was astonished that the inhabitants were not mute from overuse of their throats.
Sir Roger and his men had been as good as their word, and not only helped Lothar to join them on their march, they acquired a spare mount for him too. All was well enough, although at one small town north of Rome the men were forced to cross a bridge that had suffered such a deplorable lack of maintenance over the years that the way was dangerous. The rotten timbers were full of holes. Sir Roger’s man Gilles studied it carefully and then instructed the men to cover the worst with their shields, and in that way they crossed slowly but safely.
That, so Lothar had hoped, would be the worst they would suffer, for the populace of Rome must surely be glad to see so many religious travellers. They should be keen to throw wide the doors of the basilica, and bless this holy campaign. After all, the Pope himself had spurred them on to travel to Jerusalem. At Lucca, Lothar had seen Pope Urban II for the first time; a small, shrewd-looking man, keen-witted, but with thin lips and the look of a money-lender. He had given the army his blessing, and Roger and his men were convinced that the people of Rome must want to demonstrate their religious enthusiasm, and give what support they could.
That was Lothar’s impression as they marched down the coast from Lucca towards the city of Rome, but their welcome was a rude shock.
They were ridiculed and insulted.
Soon they were to learn why. The Holy Roman Emperor, Henry IV, had been disputing Pope Gregory VII’s right to install his own prelates over those selected by Henry himself. The Pope sought to punish Henry, and excommunicated him, which led to Henry besieging Rome, sending Gregory into exile and nominating his own Pope – first the frail Victor III, and more recently Urban II. Now Lothar and the men with Roger were to learn that the Romans disapproved of Henry’s presumption – and the pilgrims too.
Gilles had selected an inn where they could stable the horses, and the men were sitting outside in the warmth when the sound of wailing and running feet came to them. Lothar stood with his hand on his sword’s grip, Gilles at his side. Lothar was content to have Gilles with him. The man exuded confidence and competence.
Lothar eyed the way ahead. The street was little wider than an alley; there was no space here for even a cart to pass. Upper storeys had open windows, the shutters thrown wide, and he cast a glance or two up when he saw movement. It would be a good place for an ambush. The sunlight gleamed from pale-coloured rocks and tiles. There were many cloths dangling from upper windows, tunics and chemises drying in the lacklustre wind, which served to obscure their view. Then Gilles drew his sword as a clattering and shouting mob ran towards them.
‘To us!’ Gilles shouted, and the rest of Sir Roger’s men scrambled to join them. The panicked people hurtled down the street towards them even as the other men formed a defensive line, weapons unsheathed.
One, a little ahead of the others, cried out piteously to be allowed to pass.
‘What are you running for?’ Roger called.
‘We are pilgrims joining the Pope’s iter to Jerusalem, and we went to visit the Vatican to pray, all of us unarmed,’ he said. ‘But on our way, supporters of Clement attacked and robbed us. Those of us who made it inside to pray were beaten as we knelt! Men above us dropped stones on our heads. One man was knocked unconscious, and a boy was grievously injured when a rock struck his pate! They were not Christian, those people. They defiled the holy church!’
Sir Roger de Toni was despondent to hear such news. Lothar heard him discussing the affair with Gilles.
‘It was surely nonsense. The people of the city must wish to help support us and all pilgrims,’ Sir Roger said.
Gilles was less sanguine. ‘You may not believe the pilgrims, sir, but for my part I will watch every doorway and window as we pass. Not all Christians are keen to see our Pope succeed.’
They were soon to learn that the pilgrims had been telling the truth. After their experience, many declared that they could not be certain that they were working to the glory of God. God would not allow men to injure them while praying in His church. Some hundreds decided to leave Rome and the pilgrimage. They would make their way home.
Rome, Friday 27th June
The next day, Lothar saw Gilles checking the equipment for each of the men. He would not let any man mount until he had tested buckles and belts and swords, and confirmed all were as warrior-like as he could wish.
‘Do you truly believe we need be so careful?’ Sir Roger asked with a chuckle, but the humour died in his throat.
‘Two pilgrims were murdered last night,’ Gilles said. ‘A mob found them and beat them to death.’
They mounted to cross the city. Lothar was riding at the back, and as they passed further and further into the middle of the great city, he began to doubt whether Gilles’s caution was justified. He rode forward to Gilles’s side. ‘Where were the two pilgrims killed?’
‘I am not aware of any dying,’ Gilles hissed back. ‘But Sir Roger believes this is little more than a stroll in a deer park. I want him aware that there are dangers in foreign lands.’
Lothar gave a low laugh, but then, as they crossed one road and entered another, broader way, the first missiles began to strike.
There was a rattle at first, and a number of lighter stones struck the party from behind. Lothar sprang from his pony and grasped his sword, keen to fight. He slid along the wall of a house while the others fought to calm their mounts.
Behind them were some fifteen or more youths, mostly clad in loose-fitting linen, who jeered and bit their thumbs at the little force. Glancing about him, Lothar saw that Gilles had already positioned himself before his knight, while the other men-at-arms spread into a circle about the two. They appeared to be considering the best manner of responding. However, Sir Roger was not willing to be kept from the fray. As Lothar watched, he pulled out his sword and spurred towards the youths. It took Gilles by surprise, for he had clearly been thinking of evading conflict. Instead he found himself atop a horse that was startled, angry and uncontrollable, and he bawled at it until he could set it to ride after Sir Roger.
Lothar did not hesitate. On seeing Sir Roger’s attack, he sprang forward, running swiftly along the wall of the building at the side of the road. One man saw him and hurled some rocks, but they all missed, and as Lothar came closer, the youths already had the furious Sir Roger to contend with. He slashed down once, and his sword cut into a man’s shoulder and collarbone, making the fellow howl, but Lothar saw that the blow had been an error. His blade was entrapped by the victim’s bones, and Sir Roger was forced to try to recover it, jerking it this way and that, each movement making the unfortunate youth scream in agony, until a blessed swoon overtook him. As he slumped, the blade was released, and Sir Roger hefted it only to find that he was surrounded. He cast about him for an escape and at that moment Lothar, with a bull-like roar, exploded from the side of the roadway.
The youths were so certain of their victory, they had not glanced in his direction. He ran like a berserker into their midst. Surprise lent him wings, and he slammed into the first two men, belabouring them about the head with his pommel before lowering his blade and slicing a man’s arm to the bone, whirling and stabbing a fool who left his belly wide to attack, and punching a youth who was trying to throw a rock at him, knocking him senseless. While he assailed the men on the left of the knight, Sir Roger kept up a vicious assault on the other youths.
Lothar swung his sword at one of them, still roaring, but his blow missed and he was left standing alone as t
he wounded lay at his feet, staring up with terror in their eyes.
After that their way was unchecked.
Later that evening, Sir Roger took him to a small chapel and there filled a cup with wine. ‘You saved me today. Gilles told me I was rash and foolish to ride into the midst of such a force. He said that discretion is as much a part of a knight’s duty as rash courage. What do you think?’
Lothar considered. ‘I think that the proof of a man is what he succeeds in doing. All else is unimportant. You were insulted, and you avenged your honour.’
‘Would you call me rash or foolish?’
‘I call you my protector,’ Lothar said. ‘You saved me when I was on the road. I will serve you as I may.’
‘Would you swear fealty to me?’
‘If you would have me.’
So Sir Roger called to the priest, and in the presence of his copy of the Gospels, Lothar knelt and held up his hands, fingers and palms together. Sir Roger placed his own hands about them.
Lothar repeated the priest’s words: ‘In the name of God, and in His presence, here in this chapel, I swear to serve you faithfully, to guard you, never to do you any harm, to speak to your defence, and to serve you always in good faith and without deceit, to take your orders, and to serve your interests at all times. I swear this by my faith.’
Sir Roger squeezed Lothar’s hands together, and stared at him closely. ‘I accept your oath, and I will swear here, in the presence of God, that I will honour you, feed you, clothe you, and share any largesse that comes our way. This I swear.’
It was a moment of great pride. Lothar had been given a new belt, a tunic with Sir Roger’s emblem on the breast, and the gift of a new dagger. Then he, his master, and Gilles had taken a tavern by storm and by the middle of the next morning, all were finished spewing enough to take heed when the message came that they were to pack and depart for Bari, there to take ship to Durazzo.
Durazzo. It was a place he had never heard of. Others knew it as Dyrrhachium: the gateway to the great Eastern Empire of Constantinople.
Constantinople
Alwyn reached the city late in the afternoon.
The Vestes had been grateful for news of the pilgrims crossing the plains from the north, but he believed that there were more to cross the seas from the old western empire.
‘Go to Illyria, and see what the merchants there are saying,’ he said. ‘They will have their own resources at Bari and elsewhere. Find all you can about the numbers of pilgrims who intend to cross into our lands.’
‘I haven’t been to Illyria since the disaster.’
‘Perhaps it is time you went to see the lands again. Dyrrhachium was many years ago.’
‘Not to me.’
John peered at him. ‘I need you to listen to those who know about the pilgrims. I want to hear all that can be learned about them. Where are they from, how many are there, whether they form a threat to the Empire.’
‘How can I learn all this?’
‘There is one merchant in particular, a Levantine. I will give you instructions on how to find him. He has a finger in every pie that crosses the Adriatic. He lives in Dyrrhachium.’
‘I never want to see that place again!’ Alwyn said.
‘I need information! I don’t care where you have to go to get it, but I need facts!’ John had shouted.
It was the first time Alwyn had heard him shout; it was the first time he had seen the Vestes so completely confused. Dyrrhachium had been the scene of Emperor Alexius’s greatest defeat. The Normans had tried to take the city from the Empire, and Alexius had sent his strongest army to oppose them as they laid siege.
Alwyn had been there. He could remember it to this day. He and Eadnoth and Godwyn and the others, all the dispossessed of England. They had entered the battle full of fervour, eager to kill the Normans who had taken their lands and killed Harold, their rightful King. But their attempt had failed. The Normans had been routed early on, but rallied, and the Varangian Guards, who had pursued them so enthusiastically, were encircled and slaughtered almost to a man. Alwyn had been lucky to escape with his scars. At least he had his life.
Even at that time John had been resolute. There were failings when the Normans slaughtered the Varangians, but John had remained confident that given time the Empire would recover, as it had. Yet now, with pilgrims arriving to help the Empire, he was seriously concerned. It was enough to give Alwyn pause.
Bari, Tuesday 8th July
They were in Bari in the second week of July, riding with Sir Roger’s uncle.
They had met Sir Stephen of Blois south of Rome on the second day after the attack, and Gilles was wearing himself out, searching constantly for any signs of other men who might try to attack them. He felt he could relax a little when they met Sir Stephen, for with the nobleman was a strong force of knights and men-at-arms.
Bari was not a huge port. The town was set about a wide, natural harbour. Ships were run up the beach and lay there at low tide, leaning forlornly like birds waiting to feel the wind under their wings, while some few were moored at the harbour wall that had been built out into the sea, extending the spit of land that seemed to point towards their destination.
As he rode along the road towards the centre of the town, Gilles found the view much to his taste. If this was to be the last sight he would have of a Christian shore, he would be content. Small houses were closely compacted along all the streets, and looking out to the promontory he saw the lines of their roofs, with a church standing over them like a shepherd in the midst of his flock. Houses were coloured in the ochre of the area, with some few painted with lime-wash. It was a sight to gladden the heart after the last few weeks, and although the weather was cooler, still it was warm enough for a man on horseback.
Gilles decided that here he would relax. He would need all the strength of his spirit and mind when he came to land on the shores of the Holy Land.
They found a tavern where they could rest, and Gilles and Lothar were content to sit and enjoy a flagon of wine together when Sir Roger went off to speak with his uncle that night. He did not return until late.
‘Did you know that there have been two armies already?’ Sir Roger told them.
Gilles nodded. He had heard as much from the tavern-keeper. ‘They have already set sail.’
‘Yes,’ Sir Roger said. He pursed his lips for a few moments, and then added, ‘It could mean we’ll be the last to arrive. That we shall miss the fight for Jerusalem.’
‘Sir Roger, there will still be heretics to attack. They won’t reach Jerusalem by Christmas.’
‘You cannot know that. The armies are enormous, it is said. And more have marched by land and not bothered with ships. They could be there already.’
He looked out over the sea. ‘I will miss it all!’
Dyrrhachium, Wednesday 9th July
Passing the church of St Michael the Archangel, Alwyn found the memories rising and threatening to engulf him again: memories of dust and heat, and death. He saw again Godwyn’s smile, Eadnoth’s self-deprecating grin – and he saw their bodies on the ground. He saw the last desperate fights, and the slaughter.
It was here at the church that the worst of the battle had raged for him. Already his companions were dead, but then the last Varangians were caught, shut up in the church. They had seen it as a place they could fortify, but it was a trap. They did all they could to repel the enemy, but the Normans set it afire, and the remaining Varangians were burned to death. Alwyn had been fortunate. He had been injured with a blow to his left hand that took off two fingers, and then another sliced down his brow and cheek. Unconscious, he had been left for dead amid the piles of dead Byzantines while Emperor Alexius rode away to lick his wounds. Alwyn was only glad he had not seen the destruction of his comrades in the fires.
He had come to with a hideous pain in his injured hand, and when he roused himself, he found carrion birds. As he moved, seven or eight nearby moved sluggishly to escape him, but they did
not need his flesh. They had already gorged themselves. The memory made his stomach rebel, and he had acid in his throat and in his mouth. He had to spit it away.
The church had been rebuilt, it appeared, and as Alwyn rode past, he saw groups of laughing people at the doorway. It struck a strange note. Alwyn knew this place as a scene of death. People should not be happy here. He turned his horse away from the church and towards the town itself, a small provincial place with a strong wall.
He would spend no more time here than he must.
Dyrrhachium, Friday 11th July
Lothar had taken the news without emotion when Sir Roger came back from his meeting on that last day in Bari.
‘We are to take this message to the Emperor of Byzantium,’ Sir Roger said. He had been to meet his uncle that morning, and after breaking his fast he was as excited as a young knight on his first quest. ‘We hold the success of the whole journey in our hands.’
‘The Emperor asked for us to come to him,’ Lothar pointed out.
‘Yes, but he may be reluctant to allow so large a force as this inside his borders. After all, he will never have seen so glorious a sight as our army.’
‘You think so?’ Lothar said.
Sir Roger glanced at him. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. After all, he was a knight, and he had seen the full glory of England’s knights under the command of the Sheriff of Devon, but the army that his uncle had gathered was vastly larger and more impressive.
They had embarked and were soon sailing from Bari. It was not a long journey, but it was made longer by a sudden squall that drove them from their course, and then the wind ceased and they were left spewing as the vessel bucked and spun on the sea, but in the morning of the second day they were making headway again and reached the harbour of Dyrrhachium. There, Sir Roger’s men were glad to leave the ship and regain dry land. For Lothar, who had never travelled across any waters larger than a lake, the experience was hideous, and even when he was able to walk on the land once more, it still felt as though the ground was bucking and weaving underfoot. His knees were weak and feeble and he was forced to sit at the foot of a little wall while his belly and legs calmed themselves.
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