by Tony Roberts
Casca’s heart sank. Was Alexius sending and his men to certain defeat?
“But ensure that you and your men do not get involved in any fighting; I’m trying to secure a treaty with the Turkish sultan in Nicaea. If there is any fighting between our sides then it may jeopardize these negotiations. I only want the crusaders to fight the Turk. For the moment,” Alexius added, smiling.
Casca saluted. “I’ll go prepare the men,” he replied and backed away.
He didn’t get much chance to rest the next couple of days, however. Peter’s group turned up and that was when the trouble really started. The Germans in particular pushed their way around as though they owned the place and reports of thefts increased. The leaders of the crusader ‘army’ were invited into Constantinople to see Alexius, and small groups of no more than six at a time were also permitted to see the city, but always escorted by Casca’s Pechenegs.
Two days after Peter’s army arrived an altercation broke out in the suburbs and it looked like there would be a full-scale fight between the crusaders and the Greek citizens. Casca called out every spare man and a line of armed and glowering Pechenegs was soon in place between the two competing sides, arrows ready. Casca slowly walked his horse along the line, staring at the armed crusaders, dirty, unshaven men, sweating in the Greek sun, many wearing the conical helm with nasal guard, armed with spears or swords, and armored in either chainmail or, more often, padded or leather accoutrements.
Three men stood in front of the crusaders, clearly leaders. Casca made his way over to them, and addressed whom he thought was the man in charge, a burly, dark-haired man. “This is not going to get you anywhere,” he said in German.
The man looked at him in incomprehension. “Que-est-ce vous dites?” he demanded angrily.
Casca drew in a deep breath and switched to French. Damn these multiple nationalities! It was much easier in the days of the Caesars – then everyone spoke Latin. “Tell your men to back off and return to the camp, at once!”
“And who the devil are you, cochon?” the man snarled.
“I’m General Longios. Who are you?”
“Geoffrey Burel, I lead a company of men from France. We have had enough of you Greeks, pushing us around! We demand food and proper shelter, not these pathetic tents in our camp.”
Casca eyed the mass of crusaders. There were probably thirty thousand at the camp by now. If a riot broke out then there would be nothing much to stop them if they were let loose. Except a massacre. “Food is being supplied, but the emperor did not expect so many of you.”
“So many?” Burel snapped, “when ten thousand of us were slaughtered by your army in the Balkans? We are supposed to be fighting the infidel, not each other. It is said that you are not true Christians!”
“Then conduct yourself appropriately,” Casca said clearly. “Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill…”
“I know the commandments, Greek!” Burel roared. “They do not count against heretics and godless pagans! And your men do not look like Christians!” he pointed at the Pechenegs.
Casca turned slowly and examined the mounted soldiers. He had perhaps two hundred men. He turned back. “So you were defeated by our army in the Balkans? You had, what, forty thousand men? The emperor does not have even a quarter of that in the entire western portion of the Empire. You must have fled like sheep before a few thousand men!”
Burel’s face darkened. “You insult me, Greek! We are doing God’s will, and you shall not stop us! Do not think news of the actions of you and your emperor will not be sent back to the Pope. Now stand aside and let us have what is rightfully ours.”
“Or what?” Casca asked. “Do I order my men to ride you down? You saw what happened in the Balkans. If you try anything here, then the emperor will march out from the city with his elite guard and regiments, and they will cut your rabble to pieces. Now back off, and food will be sent to you. You will also tell your people that in a few days’ time you will be ferried across the water to Asia, and from there on you’ll be free to go where you wish.”
Burel spat on the ground. “In that case it cannot come quick enough. I shall not forget this, Greek!” He curtly waved his men back, and the unarmed followers followed, somewhat reluctantly. Casca puffed out his cheeks. He was relieved the issue had been resolved for the moment.
But he had the feeling trouble was not far off.
CHAPTER FOUR
A few days later a flotilla of small boats carried the crusaders of Peter the Hermit and Walter across the Bosporus, the thousands of men, women and children embarking on the ships in the Golden Horn and being rowed down the Horn and then out across to Anatolia, a brooding, waiting place.
Casca and a company of Pechenegs had gone on ahead, landing close to Chalcedon, the port opposite Constantinople and still manned by imperial troops. It was one of the few places left on that shore that the Empire still held. Casca rode out slowly beyond the port and examined the scenery. Rolling hills gradually rose from the shore, climbing as they went inland. A road ran through them, heading for the now abandoned city of Nicomedia, a once vibrant place but sacked by the Turks a few years ago and what survivors there had been had fled over to Constantinople. No-one had been back since. The Turks hadn’t enough men to garrison it and besides it was too close to the imperial capital for their liking. So it had been left to rot, rather like the countryside around.
Everything was unkempt; fields to either side that once had grown wheat were now tangled messes of creepers, long grass, new bushes and roots. The road, a dirt track, had been left to the weather and not repaired. It was pot-holed and in places had been almost obliterated by the rains, but it was still visible and along this Casca led his men. The nature of the land meant that an entire army could be just over the horizon and unseen, so he sent groups of men on ahead to scout out the land.
The crusaders would soon be across, making untold noise and being utterly unconcerned about scouting out ahead, so Casca thought it best he did that for them. He wouldn’t be thanked, of course, but he cared little for that. He was in no doubt that this undisciplined mass of people were heading for disaster. Once the Turks got to know of it they’d be down on them like a cloud of hornets. It took great discipline to maintain formation in the face of a mass of mounted archers, and he was certain that the Franco-Germans had none of that.
The road crested a rise and he looked across the countryside slowly, shading his eyes from the sun that was climbing higher into the sky ahead of him. There seemed to be a shimmering as the heat rose from the land, but it would get hotter than this. The road dropped down into a shallow valley in front of him, and beyond he could make out the ruins of Nicomedia, right on the shoreline as the bay cut into the land. It was a fair distance away and he couldn’t see if anyone was moving around there.
The old docks of Nicomedia were in ruins anyway, from what he knew of the place, and the city had been inhabited on the hillside overlooking the sea before the Turks had come. A shame, as he’d been through the place a few times in the past. Maybe one day it would once again live and breathe. He waved his men on, the horse’s hoofs clip-clopping as it trotted on an old road surface. Casca looked down. The old Roman road, built who knows how long ago. It still stood here and there, but so much had been neglected and allowed to fall into ruin, maybe because of a lack of funds, or war, or because a different road had become more popular.
The summer sun beat down and he removed his iron helmet and wiped his brow. He’d leave it off unless one of his scouts reported enemy horsemen. There was no sign of anyone at all. Birds circled lazily overhead. Buzzards. Somewhere close by something had died or was dying. He turned full circle, examining the horizons north, south, east and west.
His men rode wide and chattered amongst themselves. They were happier in the saddle out in the open. It was in their blood. The road passed through Nicomedia and then beyond, over the hills, he knew it branched. One branch ran on eastwards while the other swung around the sho
re and for a while hugged the coast before turning inland for Nicaea, the new Turkish capital. There would be a garrison there, for certain.
“Set up camp in the abandoned city up ahead,” Casca ordered to his men. “Make sure there are pickets set out in all directions. I don’t want a nasty surprise.”
“It shall be done, sir!” his second in command, a particularly swarthy Pecheneg called Majik saluted lazily, flashed a smile full of white teeth, and was gone. Casca was glad he was on the same side. He wouldn’t like turning his back on him otherwise.
As the Pechenegs galloped off, Casca took a drink from his water skin. He was like them, glad to be out of the city and campaigning. He was a soldier, not an administrator. It was what he did. The Curse compelled him to seek out war and fight in it, for glory, honor, money, the thrill of victory and a myriad of other reasons. He didn’t understand what it was that caused him to seek out conflict but here he was again, scouting out the land in enemy territory ahead of a bunch of unprepared untrained religiously inspired people who had no conception of how the Turks fought.
He spat a mouthful out. Shit. The job was shit, the crusaders were shit. He hoped the organized armies that were to follow in a few months’ time were more suited to fighting than praying, or else they’d be equally vulnerable to slaughter.
If he kept the Turks off them maybe the people of Peter the Hermit might have a chance. He snorted in cynical amusement. Chance? They had no chance. Even if they avoided the Turks here they’d be at the mercy of other groups further inland. Then there were the Armenians, inhabiting the lands around the Taurus Mountains and Adana. They were nominally under the emperor’s suzerainty but were independent in all but name. And even if they made it past the mountains and the Armenians then they had to endure the Syrian plains and deserts before they got to Jerusalem, held by another Turkish Emir.
None of Peter’s army had the faintest idea how to get there or who they were to get past. It was suicide. Still, he had a job to do and would do it to the best of his ability. If these crusaders were hell-bent on ignoring all advice, then so be it.
Nicomedia came into view fully as he crested yet another rise and sat there for a while in the saddle, studying the silent walls, open gates and burned remains of buildings the Turks had set fire to ten years or so back. Was this the fate of all the cities of the empire? Would Constantinople one day be sacked and burned? It was such a large city he doubted it would be left to rot. Whoever took it over would surely use it as their new capital, whether it be the Turk, Sicilians or some new kingdom not yet born.
He rode slowly through the western gate, a broken charred sad portal, the remains of something that had been better in days past, and he noted the weeds and grasses growing in places, clumps here and there. Were these the places the hapless citizens had been cut down and bled into the dusty earth? The houses were empty shells with blackened timbers and broken pots and doors lying inside their walls.
Animals scuttled into dark holes at his approach. They now claimed Nicomedia as theirs; dogs, cats, foxes, rats. Birds flapped upwards noisily from their perches on rooftops or the crumbling stone walls. He made his way up towards what had been the acropolis, where the citadel had been along with the main civic buildings. The spaces were bigger here between the public buildings, but the decay was the same.
Two Pechenegs came riding up, breathing hard. Their horse hoofs echoed loudly around the city square and Casca turned at their approach. “General,” one of them saluted, “there are villages in the hills surrounding this place, with people. They fled at our approach.”
“Turks?”
“No,” the Pecheneg shook his shaggy head, his long locks waving. “Greeks.”
“So, the former inhabitants didn’t all cross to Constantinople,” Casca mused. “Some stayed over here. Leave them be. No sign of the Turk, then?”
“No. They remain in their kennels,” the Pecheneg smiled grimly.
“May they remain there. What of the Crusaders?”
“They are making their way along the coast road. They are stupid. No scouts, no guards. They make too much noise.”
Casca grunted. “They are not an army; most of them are peasants. We must remember that. Guide them in and then leave them. We shall camp outside the city. I don’t want us to be too close to them.”
“It shall be done, General,” the Pecheneg nodded, pleased he didn’t have to sleep too close to the barbarians from far away. Then the two were gone, leaving Casca to take one last look around before returning back to the lower part of the city. He dismounted close to what had been a drinking fountain, but now only dust and plants filled the stone bowl. The supply had been smashed a decade ago. He saw plenty of animal tracks. They clearly had some source of drinking water, and Nicomedia would have been built on one originally. Somewhere the natural spring or watercourse flowed, perhaps in a different place to that previously, but one that supported the animal life.
Peter’s Crusaders would at least have shelter for the night.
As he mounted up, he saw the first entering the western gate. They were armed men, clearly some of the soldiers with them. He waited for them to reach him. “You can sleep in this place tonight,” he advised them. “Beyond here the Turks rule. You will have to be on guard after leaving this city.”
The soldiers grunted. They were thirsty. They didn’t care for the advice of a schismatic Greek, who to be sure was as bad as the Muslims. God would surely strike him down in time. Casca saw their expressions and guided his horse away from them. Fuck them, then. He spied a group entering the city, and realized one must be Peter the Hermit, a man clad in rude simple clothing and barefoot, riding a donkey, surrounded by the better clad of the Crusaders who were on horseback. These were the leaders, clearly. He stopped again and repeated his advice.
Peter the Hermit looked up at him. “Are you here by the orders of the emperor?”
“I am,” Casca noted he was French. “Strategos Longios.”
“Stroppy Horse what?”
“Strategos! General to you.” Ignorant peasant. “Beyond here you may be at the mercy of the Turk. You will have to send out scouts and be very cautious.”
“Aren’t you remaining here as guides? The emperor assured me that there were going to be guides with us all the way to the Holy City.”
Casca sat still in surprise. He’d not heard anything like that. “I have orders to assist you until we encounter the Turk. Since the Empire is not at war with the Turk at present we are not to antagonize our neighbors. Therefore beyond the walls of this city I’m afraid I cannot help you any further.”
“You are going to abandon us to the infidel?” Peter was outraged. The other Crusader leaders looked at Casca with hostility. “Is this the action of Christians? Surely you are to carry out a Holy War against these people!”
“We have suffered much in the past few decades,” Casca said calmly. “We must recover our strength before the emperor looks to recover the lands that are ours by right. Until then, we must wait.”
“You had the forces to attack my people in Naissus,” Peter said bitterly, then kicked the donkey’s flanks and rode past, pointedly ignoring Casca. The other riders pushed past, stiff-necked outrage clear in their postures.
Casca grunted and guided his mount out of the gates, brushing past the long straggling line of men, women and children who were coming along the road, looking at the ruins of Nicomedia in wonder. They gave Casca a long, wondering look, then were gone as the Eternal Mercenary rode off the road towards a camp on a hillside that his Pechenegs were setting up.
He tended his horse, hobbled it, then helped getting a fire going to cook an evening meal. His men nodded at his skill. Most officers thought such things were beneath them, or they could not perform such simple tasks and these hardy men felt nothing but contempt for those who could not. But here they had a man who was not only an officer, but a soldier and one who treated them as people, not as animals. Their respect for this strange, scarred
man grew.
Casca liked the Pechenegs. They were wild, uninhibited, uncorrupted and still tended to think along pagan lines, although they had been exposed to both Christianity and Islam. He found them refreshing. He’d fought them before, and respected them as tough opponents. He was used to people like them, having lived amongst tribesmen many times in the past; Scandinavians, Lombards, Vikings and Magyars. He liked their simple ways. Although his Roman past linked him to the Greek emperors, he found the Empire sometimes too decadent and corrupt for his tastes.
They gathered round for their meal. Excellent hunters, they had plenty of game to cook, and soon multiple spits were roasting away. Casca shared a meal with a group of twenty, sharing tales of hunting, war and women. He lost himself in their stories, forgetting for a while his immortal existence, enjoying the moment of hearing something new.
While they spoke and shared moments of their past lives, the old city of Nicomedia below them glowed red with the fires of the westerners, new life being breathed into the old bones of an ancient settlement. It seemed to wake after a ten-year slumber, hosting life once more. It yearned for people to inhabit its streets again.
The morning came with a slow realization that the pain in Casca’s side was real and not some unwelcome dream. His mouth was dry and foul tasting. He ought to be a little more cautious about accepting unknown drinks from a people he knew little about, but they had offered him the skins and it would have been rude and churlish to say no. The pain? Oh, he was lying on a large stone. He must have fallen onto it after the umpteenth toast to the gods, the skies and who knows what else they had drank to.
Staggering to his feet he surveyed the slope. It was a cloudy morning. Gone was the sun of the last week or so. A breeze caressed his face from the sea, bringing with it the salty tang of the Aegean. He needed to empty his bladder. His men were in various states of getting up, cooking a breakfast or still asleep. The day was an hour or so old. He emptied himself against a gnarled oak and peered down the slope. Nicomedia was alive with people moving about. They would do what they would do without Casca or his men getting in their way. They had no concept of the eastern ways. Perhaps it was just as well.
