by Tony Roberts
Giselle looked aghast. She looked at the servants Casca had – as a senior officer he was entitled to the usual collection of them – and Casca didn’t miss the meaning.
“Alright – privately on a one-to-one basis.” He waved the servants out and the door shut. Casca leaned forward and jabbed a finger towards her pocket. “So?”
Reluctantly Giselle dragged a small silver box out, half-wrapped in disintegrating parchment. The flakes of the parchment scattered on the tabletop. The box itself was exquisite, being of silver inlaid with crystal. It was the size of Giselle’s palm and was rectangular in shape with a slightly convex top. She sat there looking at it, as if it were alive.
Casca considered it for a moment. “What is it?”
“A reliquary.”
Casca looked at her for a long moment. Then he returned his attention back to the box. “You’ve got some saint’s bits in there? Won’t the church want it? Have you stolen it from a cathedral?”
Giselle shook her head. “It contains the finger of someone we want to make a saint but the church wouldn’t agree. My husband thought if we took it to Jerusalem and had it blessed there then perhaps we would succeed.”
“Let me get this straight; your family wants to make someone a saint but the church opposes it? That’s asking for trouble, Giselle.”
“I know,” Giselle said in a quiet voice. “Walter was the last living descendant of this man, and his family had care of this relic for centuries.”
Casca breathed in deeply. “A family member, then? Some sort of notable helper of the poor?”
“No,” Giselle replied, her voice almost inaudible.
“Who, then? Come on, Giselle, I don’t play games!”
She flinched and her lower lip quivered. “Syagrius.”
Casca frowned. “Who? Syag….” He caught himself and repeated the name slowly. “Syagrius?”
Giselle nodded dumbly, her head bowed.
“Syagrius.” Casca’s mind whirled. “Shit.” He leaned back and regarded the box. Syagrius. The last Roman commander or Duke or ruler of Gaul. He’d been based in Soissons after the fall of the Western Empire and kept some semblance of Roman rule going there until the Franks snuffed it out ten years after the last Emperor had been deposed. All that had happened during Casca’s entombment in ice above Ireina’s village in the Alps. “I heard he fled the Franks but was taken captive by the Goths and returned a prisoner.”
“You know your history well,” Giselle looked up, her eyes wet. “Clovis had him murdered. Clovis as king made policy and portrayed Syagrius as a bad ruler, justifying the reason behind Clovis’ attack and destruction of Syagrius’ dukedom. So the church was told never to beatify him, and to this day his name is not to be mentioned favorably, if at all. My husband’s family kept his finger as a memory to him in secret. If the Franks had ever found out, they would have been put to death. So you understand my fear at talking of this?”
“I understand well. So Walter was a Syagrii?”
“On his mother’s side, hence his Frankish name. His father would not agree with what he was going to do so Walter picked an argument as an excuse to take up the Cross. Now his dream and his family’s dream has been ended.” Giselle shook with emotion and put her hands to her face.
Casca cursed under his breath and came round the table, putting his arms round her. “Giselle, you can still go to Jerusalem and personally place this reliquary in the holiest place of Christendom.”
“Who would take me? My liege Hugh is without an army, and I do not trust any of the other nobles. And in any case they would follow the Catholic doctrine and not that of what the church would brand as a heretical belief. I would be burned!”
Casca grunted and returned to his chair. He poked the box experimentally. It moved across the table surface. “So what then, if you cannot go to Jerusalem?”
“Oh. I would return to Soissons – somehow. This box would have to be hidden somewhere. I would have to try to salvage something for my future, but I don’t think there is much. Walter sold everything to pay for his armor and weapons and supplies for the two of us. It is all gone!”
“We’ll think about it,” Casca said. “In the meantime, put that away and don’t keep checking it’s there. You may as well put a label on your clothing. I’ll work out something, for both you and old Syagrius there.”
Later that evening Casca sat alone in his room, quietly sipping a Lesbos wine. The air was chill and he wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed. It wasn’t unknown in Constantinople. The shutters kept out the worst of the knife-edged wind from across the Euxine Sea – the Black Sea as it was now known. He often still thought of things in the Latin tongue, and when relaxed – which wasn’t that often – he found himself thinking in Latin. Syagrius. He grinned slightly. A genuine Roman. A member of a good old Romano-Gallic noble family. He’d inherited the ‘Dukedom’ of Soissons from his old man, Aegidius, and Aegidius had been a friend of Aetius, the last commander of Rome that Casca had served under.
In a way Syagrius was the last flicker of the old Roman world Casca had grown up in and had known so well in his former ‘mortal’ life. It had shaped what he was inside, what he believed, what he thought, how he thought. Something had changed forever during the time he’d been entombed in that cave of ice. The old Roman world had passed and what came after that had been in place when he’d been revived. He had no choice whether he liked it or not; he couldn’t die so he had to put up with the way the world was.
Maybe it would be fun – no, that wasn’t quite the word – fitting, yes, that was it, fitting, if he could help Giselle take Syagrius’ finger to Jerusalem and maybe get him venerated as a saint. He smiled cynically. If Syagrius was anything like the generals he’d known in his time, he would be anything but a saint. Still, the irony appealed to him, and Jerusalem also had a magnetism for him. After all, it was where he’d become immortal, and he felt in his bones that one day, whenever that was, he and Jesus would meet once more there. It had to be Jerusalem. It was the Holy City of three religions, and his immortality was intertwined with religion, no doubt of that. So now this crusade was directed at Jerusalem. He had to go along just to see what happened.
He threw the remnants of the wine down his throat and grimaced. It wouldn’t be an easy journey. Winter or Summer, it would be shit. Arid regions, mountains, bandits, thieves, Turks, Armenians, Syrians. None of whom would be overjoyed to see any of the crusaders. The roads would be poorly maintained. Nobody had bothered to keep them repaired over the past few decades and since the Turks had taken over much of Anatolia, they’d been ignored.
Water would be a problem. Food would be a problem. Facing a hostile population and enemy armies may be the least of their worries. It would take strong leaders to hold the rough, uncouth and ignorant soldiers of Francia, Germany and Italy together. And the other issue would be to stop the various crusader elements from fighting amongst themselves. Traditionally the Franks fought the Italians, the Germans fought the Italians, the Franks fought the Germans. Holy fuck. And they all hated the Eastern Roman Empire. He made his mind up. He would see Alexius.
Seeing the emperor was easier said than done. Alexius was busy, but finally Casca was permitted an audience two days later. He was ushered through the ranks of palace officials and once again faced Alexius and Irene, feeling a little naked and vulnerable, standing rigidly below them. Alexius held Casca’s letter in his hand and made a show of slowly reading it and gazing at Casca from time to time. The palace chamber was silent; a pin dropping would have sent them all jumping up in fright. Finally Alexius lowered the letter wearily, as if it weighed as heavy as the world. “Strategos Longios,” he said just as wearily, “you left us six years ago suddenly, leaving us without your talents at a time when we needed them most, and when you returned a mere four months ago it was seen as an act of providence from God. Now you request that you may depart our lands once more as a guide for these crusaders on their journey to Jerusalem.” He sighed and glan
ced at Irene who was expressionless.
Casca stole a quick look at the empress. He hadn’t told her of his intentions, and he’d not seen her for three days anyway. What she felt would be very influential. Would she mind losing her current screw? Casca knew he wasn’t the only one who visited her from time to time, but he liked to think he was extra special. The male ego needed feeding, especially when it came to women.
Alexius put a hand to his beard. “Your talents are far too valuable to us to lose, Strategos. We have plenty of experienced generals who can assist the crusaders with their mission. Our intentions, as you know, are to recover those lands recently lost to the Turks. Jerusalem lies outside our plans. We need a man who knows the Franks and their customs here in Constantinople now. There are four armies on their way here, and it will take all of our strength and abilities to enable them to pass through without causing the Empire any lasting harm. Even now the forces of the northern Franks are approaching. Your mind must be on the task of escorting them to the city, not on journeying to the Holy City. I’m sorry Strategos but your request is refused. And know this; if you try to desert a second time, our wrath will be great, friend or not.”
Casca allowed a brief look of dismay to flit across his features, then he bowed and backed away.
He would desert anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first of the properly organized crusader armies arrived in the depths of winter. The northern Frankish and Flanders contingent under Godfrey of Bouillon crossed into the Empire from Hungary and were escorted through the Balkans to the plains of Thrace where Casca and his men took over. Unfortunately the soldiers under Godfrey resented being herded along the roads and finally, halting at a town called Selymbria, not too far from Constantinople, their discipline failed and the army broke out into violence.
Casca’s Pechenegs were outnumbered and pitched against the well-armed and protected knights of Godfrey could do little. Casca could do nothing to stop the crusaders from looting Selymbria and the countryside around, and withdrew his men until they got help from the capital. Godfrey wouldn’t listen to Casca’s arguments and dismissed him from his camp. He accused the Greeks of keeping Hugh of Vermandois prisoner and of betraying God’s soldiers. What exactly he was talking about, Casca didn’t know, but the other crusader leaders were just as cold in their attitude, particularly the one called Baldwin. He and Casca exchanged looks at the last meeting Casca had been to and Casca saw nothing but undisguised contempt and hatred. With people like him leading the crusaders, there could only be trouble.
Alexius sent a couple of ambassadors, Franks, to remonstrate with Godfrey, and he took notice of his own countrymen. Order was restored and the army sullenly tramped its way to Constantinople, policed by Casca who kept his distance from the leaders. Clearly there would be little said from either side. They were shown their camp site and allowed to pitch their tents there, but it was cold and the freezing winds from the north east cut across the exposed site.
Casca gratefully kicked the front door of his house open and stamped into the warm kitchen where the cooks were preparing the evening meal. “Damned glad that’s done with,” he muttered, falling into the nearest chair. Giselle appeared and wanted to know all that had happened. News of the disturbance at Selymbria had circulated around the city and she had been afraid that Casca had been hurt – or worse.
“Damned Franks have no idea of the damage they do; this isn’t an enemy kingdom, but they will help their enemies if they damage the Empire. They think of us almost as bad as the Turks. Best they’re shipped over to the far shore as soon as possible. It wouldn’t take long for them to riot again, and they’re right on our doorstep.”
“They are proud people,” Giselle said, “and will not bow to anyone other than their liege.”
“They’ll bow to the Turks’ slave whips if they don’t wise up,” Casca grunted. “Got anything warm? That wind froze my balls.”
A servant brought him a steaming bowl of soup which he gratefully began spooning into his mouth, blowing to cool it after finding it was scalding hot. Giselle sat opposite him and rested her head in her hands. “Are you closer to making your mind up what to do about Jerusalem?”
Casca paused, and shook his head. “Wait. The emperor will be eager to get rid of these people, and I think this is going to take longer than he expected. The other two armies we know of that are on their way won’t get here for a few months, not with the road conditions as they are at this time of year. Damned fools have no idea of the time it takes to march here from their kingdoms; they should have planned to get here in the autumn, not in deepest mid-winter!”
“And then?”
“And then?” Casca spooned some more of the soup. It really was good stuff. “Hmmm. There’s one more army to come yet, that of Count Raymond and the Provencals. They won’t get here until the Spring. By this time the emperor will be at his wit’s end. I’ll put pressure on him then.”
“But how will you make him change his mind? You have said yourself he will imprison you if you try to join the crusade.”
Casca smiled. “I know him well. I will make him change his mind, worry not, Giselle.” He looked at her until she dropped her gaze. He knew she wasn’t convinced by his confidence, and to be honest, he had no idea whether he would be able to do it by himself. If he persuaded Irene to champion his plea, then that was a different matter altogether. He would not then have to desert, he could leave with official blessing. He would have to work on her.
But before he had the chance to do that, things changed. The emperor sent new orders. Godfrey’s army had to be moved across to the district of Pera, standing on a hill on the northern shore of the Golden Horn, overlooking the Bosporus. It seemed the camp site they were in was too cold and the crusaders were suffering, and in answer to their request the emperor had agreed to move them.
Casca grumbled as he mounted up to oversee the transfer. “Damned fool job. Can’t he see that putting them around Pera invites them to steal the district blind? Here we are, breaking our balls keeping them away from habitation, which was why we put them here, and now we’ve got to move the entire fucking lot up a fucking hill around a whole blasted housing suburb! For Christ’s sake!”
The Pechenegs couldn’t understand his grumblings as they were in Greek but they guessed he was less than pleased about the task and they adopted an appropriate sullen attitude to the policing. Mav and Asem looked scandalized. “Sir, that’s disrespectful to the emperor,” Mav objected.
“Fuck him,” Casca snapped, breathing out a huge cloud of condensation. “And fuck the crusaders.”
Asem exchanged a meaningful look with his fellow officer. “Sir, that could get you into trouble.”
“Well shit,” Casca said heavily. “And who would do my job? Who else speaks Pecheneg, Frankish and Greek? You think I enjoy repeating every order three times? I need one of you to carry around a huge board so I can write directions on it. It’d save me half my time I waste talking to everyone. It wouldn’t be so bad if they listened, but those miserable swine think the Empire is full of effete eunuchs and emasculated boy-lovers, and the Pechenegs are Satan’s legions in league with the emperor, sending the great good God-fearing Franks to their deaths and eternal damnation.”
Mav sighed deeply. “Sir, we must follow the emperor’s commands.”
“Well what do you think I’m doing here on this fucking horse, Mav? Waiting for the Second Coming to light up the far fucking shore? I’m freezing my tits off here and I’d rather be indoors in front of the biggest fire my servants could whip up and being ravished by a company of horny big-titted women. But no, I’m here following the emperor’s orders!”
Mav looked away, red-faced.
“Bah!” Casca finished, spitting onto the frozen soil. His spittle solidified even as he watched it. “Right,” he switched to Pecheneg Turkish. “Get these turds moving, and if any look like staying, jab their asses with your lances.”
The Pechenegs smi
led wolfishly. They enjoyed serving their commander; he spoke as they did. They moved forward in a large arc, converging on the camp. The majority of the crusaders were already waiting for the escort to do their bit, and the leaders gathered at the front under the banners, and began marching towards the distant hill of Pera, with the cluster of houses around its slopes.
Casca rode close to them, waving Mav and Asem to make sure the Pechenegs followed his orders which he knew they would. Godfrey, a tall, yellow-bearded man, led the way, followed by his two brothers and then came the minor nobility. Godfrey looked across at Casca, riding uncomfortably a few yards away. “Will we have food at the place we are being taken to, Greek?”
“Yes,” Casca said shortly. “The emperor has arranged it.” He better had, Casca thought sourly, or this lot will ransack Pera.
“We shall see if he has kept his word,” Godfrey said ominously, then turned his head away, dismissing Casca.
Muttering dark words against the Frankish commander, Casca guided the crusaders up the hill to the new camp site. It had a better view of the city and of the countryside across the straights, and although on what might have seemed a more exposed position, it actually was more sheltered because of the houses nearby.
Leaving a few Pechenegs under Mav to make sure things remained calm, Casca returned to the city. He made his way to the palace, determined on seeing either the emperor or empress. What sort of thinking had gone towards the moving of the crusaders? In the event Alexius readily summoned Casca to the throne room to hear the report. Casca confirmed that everything had gone smoothly, but then asked why they had been moved from a readily prepared camp with supplies to another, which was closer to houses and much smaller.
Alexius shook his head. “I shall hold a private audience with you afterwards, Strategos. Go to my chambers now. I shall be with you after dark.”
Casca dutifully made his way through the corridors, escorted by two guards and a palace flunky, and allowed to rest in one of Alexius’ day chambers. A servant hovered, ready to serve his needs whether it be food or drink, but Casca wasn’t in the mood for either.
