by Tom Harper
γ
I had seen the lord Bohemond many times since we had left Constantinople – debating at councils, leading raiding parties, walking the lines to rally his men – but every time it was as if I saw him anew. Partly it was the effect of his physique, for he stood a foot taller than most men, outstripping even Sigurd, with immense breadth in his shoulders and arms like a mangonel. His hair was cropped very short, and though like all the Franks he had abandoned the habit of shaving, his beard was trimmed close to the cheek. Yet it seemed that the elements of his body were not at one with each other, for his skin was mottled red and white, his hair brown but his beard russet. Only the pale blue eyes remained identical in their unyielding stare.
But it was not merely Bohemond’s physical aspect that drew men’s eyes. Whether by his strength or by some infernal blessing, he was possessed of an energy which no man could ignore. In a busy room, the loudest conversation clustered about him; in war, the fiercest fighting was at his standard. Though he dressed every inch the sober prince, his simple armour now worn over a wine-red tunic, he conveyed somehow a reckless, unpredictable air which seduced the affections of men and women alike. He had neither lands nor title, yet he had gathered an army which was the sinew of the campaign. After every battle his was the first name spoken, and in ever louder tones.
Tatikios was one of the few wholly immune to his charm. ‘I did not expect you, Lord Bohemond. Have the Turks surrendered the city?’
Bohemond gave an easy smile. Perhaps it was the way the rings of his mail caught the light, but the tent seemed brighter where he stood. ‘They will, General. Once we have our towers at their gates, the city will starve.’
‘No army has ever forced the city walls from without?’
‘No army has ever fought with the hand of God guiding them.’
‘You would be wise to offer the Lord the humility which is His due.’ The reflected lamp-light flickered on the eunuch’s nose, making it almost impossible to heed his words seriously. ‘So far He has visited only famine and pestilence on us.’
Bohemond shrugged. ‘I would not have it otherwise. What glory would we win marching with full bellies against armies of women? What glory would the Greek way win us?’
‘The glory of life preserved rather than wasted.’
‘The glory of an empire lost? When the Greeks have the strength to reclaim their own lands, when their King dares to lead his army without fear of falling into captivity, then you may extol the Greek way to me.’
The discipline of a lifetime in the palace kept Tatikios’ smooth face impassive. Indeed, I thought I glimpsed a smile on his lips. ‘As you say, we Byzantines are a feeble nation, scarce able to master an army of children. Doubtless your father said the same twenty years ago as he defecated out his life on Kephalonia, once we had destroyed his fleet and driven his army into the sea.’
Bohemond went very still, all the more striking for his usual unceasing momentum. The contrasts of his skin seemed to heighten, like an alloy heated in the fire, and his fingers scratched at his sword hilt. ‘There are some matters that you would do well to forget, eunuch, far from home as you are and surrounded by warriors ten times your strength. My father was worth a legion of your Greeks – and had you challenged him on the battlefield, rather than corrupting his allies with gold and lies, he would have walked across the Adriatic on your corpses.’
‘Of course,’ said Tatikios. ‘But history should not stand between allies.’ He clapped his hands, and a slave appeared from behind one of the folds of the tent. ‘Wine for the lord Bohemond?’
‘No.’
‘As you wish. What brings you unsummoned to my tent tonight? What do you want of me?’
The vigour was returning to Bohemond’s body. He stared down on Tatikios through narrowed eyes. ‘You presume too much. I did not come to discuss anything with you, eunuch, but with your servant.’
Visibly confused, Tatikios looked to the slave who still waited in the corner. He seemed about to speak, but a soft laugh from Bohemond checked him.
‘Not your slave; your scribe. Demetrios Askiates. Alone.’
The air outside was cold, sharp after the warmth of the tent, but the pace I needed to keep up with Bohemond drew heat into my limbs. He seemed impervious to all discomfort and danger: few Franks would have ventured into our camp without a troop of guards at their backs, thinking us little better than craven traitors, but he walked alone, his arms bared beyond the short sleeves of his tunic. My breath emerged in clouds as we strode between the lines of tents, heading gradually up the slope towards the northern arm of the mountain, and somewhere to my left I heard the melancholy notes of a lyre plucking at the night.
Gradually the tents thinned and the soft ground grew harder. We passed through the pickets and climbed to a stony outcrop on the side of the hill. Looking down, I could see the campfires of our army strung out in an enormous arc, and the torches on the watchtowers mirroring it. The moon shone through a tear in the clouds and illuminated the city cupped between the mountain and the flames. I seated myself on a cold rock beside Bohemond, and for a moment we gazed at the scene in silence.
‘From here, you could almost forget the suffering among those fires,’ Bohemond said at last.
‘Indeed, Lord.’
He looked at me. ‘I will be honest with you, Demetrios. The army is close to collapse. Perhaps your general was right – perhaps we have tempted God’s patience too long in this place.’
‘God’s purpose is inscrutable, Lord.’
He did not seem to notice my words. ‘Nor is it even the Turks who will be our downfall. We weaken ourselves too much with unnecessary strife. Provençal against Norman, Lotharingian against Fleming – even, I confess, Norman against Greek, when our past quarrels are resurrected.’
Puzzling that he should bring me to this remote place to mourn the failings of his allies, I murmured something vague about our fellowship in the body of Christ. Again, I was ignored.
‘How can we fight as one while we divide ourselves with a host of petty allegiances? You cannot conduct a war by council. When my father went to war, he did not barter its course with his vassals: he commanded them.’ He rested his chin on his hand, and stared down again. ‘They tell me that you found the body of my liegeman, Drogo of Melfi.’
I felt a fresh pang of discomfort, and he must have sensed it for he touched my arm in reassurance. ‘No doubt there are some who would work mischief with that fact, but I am certain that you discovered him in innocence. Happenstance.’
‘His servant sought help. By chance, I was nearest.’
Bohemond straightened. ‘Even chance may have her purposes. That it should be you whom the boy found, and none other . . . How did Drogo’s death strike you?’
Unsettled by the sudden change of conversation, I fumbled for words. ‘A tragic loss, Lord – no doubt his comrades will mourn him deeply.’
‘No doubt – but you misunderstand me. How do you think he came to die?’
‘His throat was cut open. Probably by a sword, to judge by the depth of the wound.’
‘So they told me. A Turkish blade, you think?’
I hesitated. ‘I cannot say.’
‘But others will. If a man dies in battle, his friends honour him. If he dies unarmed and alone, far from his enemies, then they will suspect treachery – and will seek to avenge it. Already I can hear the whispers in my camp: that it was a Provençal, or a jealous rival, or a creditor – or even a Greek.’
I took the news in silence.
‘If these rumours are sustained, some in my army may strike precipitately against those they blame.’
‘I will pray for temperance.’
‘Pray rather for deliverance.’ Bohemond slid down from the rocky seat and turned to face me, blocking the moonlit city from my sight. ‘Now is the moment when we must unite under the banner of God, or fall divided by our folly. The fate of Drogo cannot be a wound which festers among us.’ He slapped his fist into the pa
lm of his hand, startling a nearby owl into flight. ‘If we allow feuds to rise among us, we will become mere pickings for the Turkish scavengers.’
‘You could announce—’
‘There is nothing I can announce that will calm my men – nothing save the truth. That is our only salvation. That is why I spoke earlier of providence. I have seen you often, Demetrios Askiates, lurking behind Tatikios, scribbling with your pen while your eyes and ears recorded all. I know there is more to your service than most – perhaps even that fool of a eunuch – suspect. I know that in your city you had a reputation for unveiling the truths to which other men were blind.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘The Duke of Lorraine and his brother positively swear to it.’
‘I only serve—’
‘Demetrios, you would see the siege ended, the famished fed and the city restored to your Emperor?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then help me.’ I heard the jangle of his armour as he tapped a fist against his heart. ‘Help me root out the canker of Drogo’s death before it poisons us all. Discover who murdered him, so that rumours and speculation and recriminations do not cleave our army apart.’
His eyes, grey in the moonlight, fixed on mine. ‘Please?’
δ
A chill dew still lay on the ground when I reached the Norman camp next morning. It soaked my boots and shrivelled my feet, yet it was the stares of those we passed which truly discomfited me. Their drawn faces looked up from steaming pots of boiling bones, examining the Greek interloper with his giant companion, and I saw only hatred. A few even summoned the strength to spit as we passed.
‘You should have worn armour,’ said Sigurd, unhelpfully.
‘I don’t want to appear a threat.’
‘Better a threat than a target.’
‘Trust has to begin somewhere.’
‘Far from here.’ Sigurd took a rag from his belt and ostentatiously wiped some imagined moisture from his axe-head. ‘Have you forgotten that these are the same Normans who spent four years trying to defeat the Emperor whose gold they now take? Or that leading their kinsmen at the coast is the son of William the Bastard who stole my country? These men are the thieves of kingdoms, and I would want three hauberks and a stout wall at my back before I trusted myself to their company.’
Thankfully he spoke in Greek, which none of the Franks had troubled to learn.
‘And now you’ve pimped yourself to Bohemond, the thief of thieves,’ he continued.
‘Surely you agree that a suspicious death should be laid to rest. Distrust and dissension among us will be fatal.’
‘It was a Norman death; we should be thanking God and praying for more.’
Sigurd’s foul temper at last ran silent, and I was able to enquire after Drogo without risking offence. Even so, I was frequently answered with scowls. Often I had trouble making myself understood with those I asked, for none of us spoke a common language. Rather, over the course of months we had learned to barter words, trading and hoarding them. As with all commerce, ill will made it infinitely harder.
After half an hour, I found the tent I sought. There was little to distinguish it, a patchwork cone of mismatched cloths which had been sewn and re-sewn until the neat stripes of its inception became a labyrinth of criss-crossed lines. The flaps were still down against the cold, and I rapped on the stiff fabric to announce myself. A small voice grudgingly called me in.
There were four straw mattresses on the earth floor inside, though only one occupant. It was the boy who had brought us to the body, the dead man’s servant, squatting on the straw and rubbing an oily tuft of wool along a sword blade. In the dusk and confusion of the night before, I had barely had time to look at him: now I noticed how deep-sunken his cheeks were, how the dark eyes seemed held in a perpetual terror. The brown hair which fell well past his shoulders gave him an unsettlingly girlish quality.
Despite the circumstances in which we had met the previous day, he gave no sign of remembering me. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name is Demetrios. This is Sigurd. You brought us to your master’s body last night. Now the lord Bohemond has charged us to discover who killed him.’
He inclined his head close to the blade, as if checking for some imperceptible flaw. ‘I did not kill him.’
So clumsy was the response that for a moment I did not know how to answer it. I crouched before him, trying to look into the downcast eyes, and softened my voice.
‘What is your name?’
‘Simon.’
‘From where?’
‘Cagnano.’
It might have been in Persia for all I knew. ‘How long did you serve Drogo, your master?’
Misery filled the boy’s face as he stumbled to answer my question, tapping his fingers hopelessly. Sigurd coughed impatiently, but I did not press the boy. His soul was brittle, and I sensed that even a little rough usage might snap it. As I waited, I watched the sallow light seeping under the edge of the tent. Every so often a passing shadow would interrupt it, but there was one shadow I noticed which did not move.
‘Since Heraklea. I do not know how long it has been since then.’
‘About six months,’ I guessed. ‘Who did you travel with to Heraklea?’
‘With my master’s brother. He died in the battle there. Afterwards, my master took me into his household.’
I remembered the battle at Heraklea – though in truth it had been barely a skirmish. On a dusty morning, the Turks in the garrison had made one charge at our vanguard, then fled away before us. We lost three men, probably fewer than those who died of thirst that day. I had thought little of them.
‘What kind of master was he?’
The boy sniffed, and wiped his nose with the wool. It smeared black oil over his cheek. ‘Fair. He rarely punished me when I did not deserve it. Sometimes he gave me food, when he could spare it.’
‘Did he have enemies?’
‘No.’
‘Who else sleeps in this tent?’
Did I imagine it, or did the shadow under the hem of the tent move? The boy, who had his back to it, shifted on the mattress and twisted the sword’s hilt in his hands.
‘Three companions of my master.’
‘Servants?’
‘Knights.’
‘Their names?’
‘Quino, Odard and—’
The snapping of canvas broke off the boy’s words, and we all three turned to look at the figure standing in the open door. I could see little more than his silhouette, a black form against the grey light outside. He stank of horse sweat.
‘Whelp!’ he barked, affecting not to notice Sigurd or me. ‘My mount has waited for your grooming for half an hour. If she has grown sores, or gone lame, I will visit her afflictions on you tenfold.’ He stepped into the room, and let his stare sweep across us. ‘Who are these?’
‘Demetrios Askiates,’ I told him. ‘I—’
‘Hah. A Greek. Tell me, Demetrios Askiates, what should I think when I find two Greeks alone in a tent with a boy?’
‘One Greek,’ growled Sigurd, unhelpfully. ‘And a Varangian from England.’
‘A Varangian from England,’ mimicked the knight. ‘A race named for a tribe of catamite slaves. You and the Greeks have the same black soul, and your vices are legendary.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘Get out and see to my horse, or I will whip you into the Orontes.’
‘I have not finished with Simon,’ I said. ‘Nor have you told me your name.’
‘Nor do you deserve to hear it.’ The knight had come further into the tent now, and as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out more of his appearance. He was neither tall nor broad, but there was a lean strength in his body that a larger man would have done well to beware. His movements were quick and unpredictable, his limbs twitching all the while, and his face was lined well beyond his apparent youth. I did not think he smiled often.
‘You serve the lord Bohemond?’ I asked.
‘I do.’
‘Bohemo
nd has charged me to discover how the knight Drogo came to die.’
I barely saw him move, but suddenly his eyes were very close to mine. His sour breath fanned my face.
‘Even my lord Bohemond can err in his judgement. Or perhaps he believes that the Greek who found my brother Drogo, alone and isolated, may indeed have personal knowledge of how he was murdered.’
‘Drogo was your brother?’ I asked, astonished.
‘As a brother. We shared a tent, our hardships, our food and our prayers. When his natural brother died he turned to us as his family.’ He stepped back, his spurs dragging scars into the mud floor. ‘But that is no matter for you. Leave my tent, you and your pederast friend, before I avenge Drogo’s death on you both.’
Thus far, Sigurd had kept calm under the knight’s provocation, but he controlled himself no longer. Grasping his axe by its head, he swept the haft like a scythe at the Norman’s knees, meaning to knock them from under him. But the knight was faster: his sword swung before him and parried the blow, biting deep into the wood of the axe-haft. Both their arms must have stung from the impact, yet for a moment they held their weapons clasped together, unbending, each staring into the other’s eyes. Then they pulled free.
‘Next time it will be your neck that tastes this sword,’ the knight hissed. He was breathing hard.
‘Next time, I will break your blade in two and force it down your throat.’
I pulled at Sigurd’s arm. Behind us, I could see the boy hunched over with terror on the bed. It tore at my conscience to leave him with the knight, but I feared worse would befall all of us if we stayed.
‘We should leave.’
Outside the tent the air was hard, and I narrowed my eyes against the sudden light. I had no wish to linger any longer in the Norman camp, for the knight’s anger at us was no more than most of his countrymen felt, but the sight of an old man sitting cross-legged in the doorway of the tent opposite spurred me to one last effort. Sigurd and I crossed to greet him, and I pulled a bloodied bundle wrapped in cloth from the pouch at my belt. I had intended it to encourage the boy, but perhaps I could make it tell elsewhere.
