Casca 39 The Crusader

by Tony Roberts

  “Understood,” Casca grinned. That old scheming buzzard was gone, which was one big potential pain in the ass out of the way. “Then I should resume my duties without any problem, sire. My office still in the same old place?”

  “I think you’ll find it so. I shall assign two assistants to your office. I won’t be able to devote as much time to your career as before, but messages can be sent between your office and my courtiers whenever you so wish. I may well summon you to attend me from time to time.”

  “Understood,” Casca nodded. “My duties are still military? I don’t think I’m that adept at domestic affairs.”

  “My thoughts precisely. I’ll assign you to dealing with the newly arriving western armies. The first is due any time. You’ll have control of the Pecheneg tribesmen. You speak their language almost as well as they do, and I know you speak the Frankish tongues too. God has indeed blessed me with your return at this critical time. Keep those barbarians out of my city, that is all I ask.”

  “And to get them across to Asia?”

  “That is the ultimate aim. If they can cause trouble to the Turks, so much the better. I don’t want them here eating my food, harassing my people, stealing my property. The two armies approaching us are not trained warriors or under nobility; they are a rabble under religious fanatics. They may see our church as much an abomination as the Muslim mosques. It wouldn’t take much for them to attack us.”

  “Then I’ll see to it the Pechenegs have clear orders. Not that they’ll need much encouragement to dish out pain.”

  Alexius nodded. “I am pleased you have returned, Strategos. I know you are someone who will perform his duties well, and am someone whom I can trust, and in these times someone I can trust is invaluable. Now, enough of work! Let us discuss other things. Tell me, are the women in Persia as beautiful as those here in the empire?”

  Casca laughed and as the evening descended upon them, they talked much as they had in the old days, of women, of foreign lands, of new weaponry and fighting tactics.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Casca had hardly gotten his ass into his new seat when orders came from Alexius the next morning to organize a reception committee for the first of the armies that had turned up. They had been shepherded by the Pecheneg mercenaries into an area well away from the land walls but close to the suburbs. The worry was that they would plunder the suburbs, even though food had been provided at strategically placed depots.

  Grumbling to himself, Casca shouted along the cool corridors of the annex attached to the Blachernae Palace, which he’d been housed in. He wanted a horse to be readied and for a company of Pecheneg mercs to be lined up in the courtyard outside. The Blachernae was a more recent construction than the Bucoleon, sited in the north-west corner of the city right against the land walls. Casca had been sent there for two main reasons; firstly, as his job was to take care of the crusading armies, his position there was much closer to whatever source of trouble there would be. And trouble was expected. Secondly, his Pechenegs were housed in barracks close by. Mercenaries of the emperor they may be, but nobody wanted them inside Constantinople. They were still wild nomadic people and prone to rioting and plundering.

  A horse was waiting for Casca by the time he emerged into the sunshine, squinting briefly. A long line of Pechenegs were waiting patiently on horseback, wishing to catch their first good look at their new commander. Would he be generous with pay? Was he an effeminate Greek they could bully into allowing them greater freedom in their actions? Was he a favorite of the emperor, or the empress, or one of the court eunuchs?

  They regarded the stocky, scarred man in dusty clothing who strode towards his mount, being held by one of their number. He looked and walked like a warrior, and they were suitably impressed by his appearance. In return, Casca gave them a fairly quick glance and knew these to be tough, wild horsemen, given to excesses at times, but damned good cavalry with their bows and spears.

  He mounted up and led his horse round to face the men. They saw he was used to riding. Good. They didn’t want some land-borne fop they would have to nursemaid. If a man could not ride and lead, then he should still be suckling his mother’s breasts.

  “Men of the tribe,” he began, startling them in their own tongue, roughly accented though it may be, “I am your new Strategos, Caska Longios.” He had shortened his family name and Hellenized it so as not to make it stand out, especially if anyone around belonged to the bastard Brotherhood of the Lamb. “I have fought against your tribe in the past,” he grinned beneath his iron helm, “and won. But I learned to respect your bravery and prowess with the bow. I am pleased to command men such as yourselves.”

  The Pechenegs were surprised but pleased at Casca’s words. He spoke of his martial victory over them but in a way that did not insult them. To be sure, after the imperial victory over their tribe many of them had been pressed into service for the emperor, and they had found living in the empire and fighting for it was preferable to scratching a hard living out on the steppes or in the wild mountains of Bulgaria, and pay was good, food plentiful and the women softer and more pleasurable. None of them would go back to their former lives even if they were approached by their own people. Now they found they were being led by someone who said the right things, spoke their own tongue and seemed to know how they fought. Excellent. Things may well end up even better in the near future.

  “We are to ride out to the camp of the newly arrived westerners. I am told they come from poor districts of the lands of France and Germany, and may be rough, uncouth and liable to fight in the blink of an eye. Be on guard, and if any of them starts any crap, you have my authority to kill them. I don’t want people of the Empire suffering when these westerners should be killing Turks.”

  The Pechenegs smiled hungrily. They enjoyed such orders. What did it matter that these were people from countries they had never seen, or even heard of? To be able to fight someone was all they asked for. At least fighting for the Empire they could be sure of endless battles. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to fight the land of those who called themselves Romans.

  Casca led them out through the nearby military gate, manned by nervous looking militiamen. The Pechenegs didn’t even look at them; they were beneath contempt. Casca did look at them and pulled his mouth down. That the Empire had to rely on such men these days showed how bad things had become in such a short time. It was depressing.

  The road crossed the immense ditch outside the double walls and then they were in the countryside. Ahead were dotted homesteads and farms, and to the right the Golden Horn glittered. Up ahead he could see the new arrivals encamped, already making a mess of the grass, trees and shrubs, ripping them up. A few houses stood not too far away and he could hear cries of outrage already emanating from them. He cursed. Someone was making free with somebody’s property. Well, that shit would stop right here and now.

  He waved the men behind him on and they spread out in a wide fan, bows in hands. The ground shook to the drumming of hoofs and Casca clattered down a dirt road into the clearing that separated the two sides of a hamlet. It was full of filthy, ragged men, all carrying spears, rudimentary swords and clubs. All had sewn onto their jackets or tunics a small cross. Casca took in their rough apparel and appearance in one look. These weren’t professional soldiers.

  He slapped his horse’s rump with the flat of his blade and galloped across the line of men heading for a row of houses they had not yet reached, and they stepped back hurriedly in surprise. Casca wheeled round and faced the men, his sword gripped tightly. “Who are you and what are you doing?” he demanded in German.

  “You are a knight?” one of the men replied, looking up at him in awe at the chainmail, iron helm, comparatively tidy hose and tunic, and the quality sword.

  “I’m a general in the service of the emperor,” Casca snapped, eyeing a man emerging from a house opposite, clutching a goose, hotly pursued by a screaming woman. “You there,” he shouted, pointing his sword at him, “drop that goo
se, now!”

  “Who are you to order me?” the man demanded, flooring the woman with a backhander.

  Casca snarled and urged his horse to trot forward. The westerners parted before him and Casca rode up to the thief. “I told you to drop it,” he growled, sending the flat of his blade down on the man’s head. In surprise he dropped the goose which, enraged, swung about and pecked the man on the thigh. Clutching his head and thigh in pain, he ran for his life, pursed noisily by the goose, and then the goose’s proper owner.

  “If you want food,” Casca said, facing a growing crowd, “then you ask for it and pay for it. Else you will be supplied by me. Do you understand?”

  “My men are tired and hungry,” a new voice broke in, “and we demand what is ours by right.”

  “Right?” Casca said, facing the new speaker, a tall man with the look of a fanatic to him. “Is it right to steal? Doesn’t the bible say something about that?”

  “Not if it means stealing from heretics and unbelievers,” the man replied. “They deserve the wrath of God.”

  “Then let God determine that,” Casca said, staring the man down. “Who are you?”

  “Walter. We have come many leagues to fight the infidel and take Jerusalem back for the Cross. Are you not Christians?”

  Casca grinned ironically. He certainly wasn’t, and the Pechenegs damned well weren’t. “These houses are all inhabited by devout Christians. They follow the same God. Over there,” Casca jerked a thumb behind him, “beyond the city, stand the Turk. Those are the people you will have to fight to get to Jerusalem.”

  Walter stared at the Pechenegs, their dark skin, hooked noses and deep brown eyes clearly different from what he was used to. “And these men here?”

  “Are my men. They have orders to shoot to kill if any of your men start anything. Got it?”

  “They do not have the appearance of men of God!”

  By now a sizeable crowd had gathered. The Pechenegs were getting nervous with such an overwhelming number of people pressing forward, most of whom were in a mood that didn’t give them any comfort. They were tired, suspicious, hostile and more than a little nervous themselves, and that made them prone to sudden changes of mood and that was dangerous.

  Casca glanced above the sea of heads before him and saw more people arriving in the camp, looking for somewhere to rest their weary bones, and then seeing the crowd gathered by the houses, were coming over to see what was going on. If things weren’t sorted out pretty quickly he’d have a heck of a problem on his hands. He looked at the roughly-dressed Walter. “That camp isn’t suitable for the number of people you’ve got coming in. Best move it downhill away from these houses.”

  “We were told we could camp where we liked,” Walter said truculently. “Are you not men of God, or are you agents of Satan?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Casca exclaimed, not worrying whether it was seen by the others as a blasphemy or not. “I’m trying to stop the people who live here from being overrun by your followers. Over there is plenty of space, but you’re not going to get that where you’ve pitched your camp!”

  “It is God’s will – Deus lo Vult!” Walter exclaimed, raising his hands to the sky. The others around him did likewise. “We are on crusade, Greek, and willing to follow God’s will, whatever that is and wherever that takes us. He has guided us to this place, and here we will camp.”

  “The fuck you will,” Casca muttered, swinging his horse round. He addressed his fidgeting men. “Burn that camp. Drive these fools down the hill to the bottom.”

  The Pechenegs broke into life, smiles of delight breaking out over their dark faces. With loud whoops they charged the crowd who screamed and scattered before them, running back towards the camp, herded beautifully by the horsemen. Walter remained open-mouthed at Casca’s side. He turned back to the general. “You will pay for this abomination! God will strike you down!”

  “Oh shut up, you stupid bastard,” Casca snapped, watching the Pechenegs re-enact how they caught wildlife, riding round wide and far, then galloping in close to the panic-stricken crowd who were running for their lives down the hill away from the already shattered camp. Smoke was already rising from the burning canvas and wood that had been hastily erected that morning. Nothing would be left where Walter’s people had set up just a few hours ago. “Go and make a new camp at the bottom of the hill, and we’ll send food and other supplies to you.”

  “You are agents of evil!”

  “If you say so,” Casca replied indifferently. “One word of advice. Those men fight using the tactics of the Turk. See how easily your people were scattered. You won’t stand a chance against them.”

  “For all I know you are the Turk!”

  Casca leaned forward, causing Walter to shrink back. “If we were the Turk, your stupid people would all be dying in heaps on that slope by now. They use archery in devastatingly effective waves, riding round you in circles, shooting you full of arrows. And if you try to attack they ride away, still shooting, then return once you stop or retreat. You won’t last an hour against them.”

  “God will protect us, agent of Satan,” Walter said, stalking off in fury.

  “No point arguing against ignorance,” Casca muttered. He would have to report the morning’s activities to Alexius pretty fast. Leaving his Pechenegs to police the new camp and to stop anyone getting up the hill to the houses, he returned to the barracks and arranged a junior officer to take over from him. He also got a shift of men on guard organized so that every few hours the men were rotated. No good in letting the men get tired. Tempers would get even worse.

  He then composed a report, as brief as he could, cursing over the Greek letters. Why they didn’t use the Roman style, even after all these centuries of being dominated by them, he didn’t know. It was dumb. At least it was better than the torturous writings of the Orientals or even the Arabs.

  He was surprised to get a summons to the imperial presence later that day. He decided to go as fast as he could; emperors did not like being kept waiting. He took his horse through the long streets of the city. He used the Mese, the main street in the city, for the majority of his journey; it was a mile or two to the palace and the Mese cut through the center of the city and ran right to the statue of Constantine, the man who had founded the new capital of the Roman Empire way back. Casca had been serving with the emperor Tzin in far off Cathay at that time, and had only discovered the change from Byzantium to Constantinople on his return via Persia.

  Leaving his horse with the imperial stables at the entrance to the palace, Casca reported to the palace official on duty and he was soon escorted through the corridors of marble and stone to the inner sanctum of the emperor, the throne room. He was admitted through two imposing doors and ordered to bow before the Imperial Presence. Casca knew the drill; he’d been through it all before on countless times down the centuries. How many emperors had he worked under since the east had gone its own way after the collapse of the unified Roman Empire? Justinian, Heraclius, Basil, and now Alexius. Four.

  There was a smell of incense wafting through the chamber, and the marble felt cool on his forehead as he performed what the Greeks called proskynesis. The act of prostration. He was aware of a multitude of people watching him, no doubt frowning at his clothing. He hadn’t washed, shaved, dressed or done any number of things expected of a visitor to the palace, but time was of the essence. The emperor wanted to see him yesterday, and nobody would ask him to bathe.

  The command came to rise and Casca stood, his helm under one arm. He saw sat alongside Alexius the empress Irene, whom the emperor had married when she had been fifteen. Casca remembered it very well. He once again looked into her eyes, the same color as his, and recognition was mutual. Her lips briefly moved into a knowing smile and Casca bowed slightly to her in acknowledgement. She was still as attractive as ever, and would now be in her early to mid-thirties. Irene hadn’t been the first empress Casca had enjoyed; and who knows, she might not be the last eit
her. He then turned to Alexius. The emperor had done his own share of dallying about in the past, particularly with the wife of the emperor he’d deposed which had caused no end of trouble with Irene’s family, the powerful Doukas, but that had been sorted out. Eventually. Casca had taken full advantage of Irene’s anger with Alexius at that time.

  Best Alexius was kept ignorant of that.

  “Greetings, Strategos,” Alexius began. “We understand there was an incident this morning outside the walls. Would you care to expand on your report you kindly sent us?”

  “Your majesty,” Casca said, and gave a concise report of what had happened. The throne room broke out into a buzz of voices. They were all anxious to avoid trouble, trying to keep a balance between east and west. Although they wanted the Turk kicked out of Anatolia, they weren’t powerful enough to argue with them at this moment, neither were they prepared to take on the crusaders.

  “It appears we may need bigger camps in that case. Tell me, Strategos, how many of these Franks do you believe are there at this moment?”

  “Sire, I think there are around three thousand, but more are arriving all the time.”

  “Yes. The main body under Peter the Hermit is much bigger and should be here in a few days. We must prepare a camp for them, and arrange for food to be supplied. But we need to get them across to Asia as fast as possible. I do not want them staying there any longer than is necessary. Once Peter’s army turns up, arrange for their transfer, Strategos.”

  Casca hesitated, his mind racing. He glanced up at the emperor who looked surprised.

  “You have something on your mind, Longios?”

  “Sire. Those in the camp are nothing more than pilgrims – some have weapons but little or no training on how to use them. The Turks will wipe them out.”

  “There are minor nobility with Peter’s main body and troops from Germany and France with them. They will have to take their chances in Anatolia; in any event, it is clear they cannot stay here. Just make sure, Strategos, that they are gone within a week of their arrival. Since you are concerned as to their safety, you will cross over with them and point them in the right direction.”