by Tom Harper
The Provençal leader’s eyes stared down from either side of the strip of iron covering his nose. His ragged beard sprang wild beneath his helmet. ‘If the men of Sicily could build this cursed tower and not waste time pillaging the dead, then the men of Provence would not have to waste their forces protecting them. That is what your lord Bohemond has commanded.’
I turned my attention away from them, for Sigurd had returned. He strode past the bickering officers, ignoring them, threw down the plundered shield and stamped on it. Even his strength could not crack it.
‘Five months,’ he growled. ‘Five months and we’ve learned nothing more than how to kill ourselves.’
The clanking tread of men-at-arms silenced the recriminations. A company of Lotharingians were approaching along the muddy track, their long spears clattering against each other over their heads. I was grateful for the relief, for it had been a hateful day. By my feet the rubble of broken tombs was at last beginning to fill the foundation trench, but it would be a week or more before the tower was completed – if the Turks did not first find a way to destroy it. Even then it would take us no closer to the inside of those unyielding walls.
As the Lotharingians took up their watch Sigurd mustered his troop. They were Varangian guards, pale-skinned northmen from the isle of Thule – England, in their tongue – and most fearsome among the Emperor’s mercenaries. Yet today their bellicose posture was tamed and the usual clamour of their conversation silenced. Battle was their living; months of labouring, guarding, digging and burying had drained it from them.
The Provençal cavalry trotted away, and we followed them towards the boat bridge back to the camp. With only scant food and guilty dreams awaiting us we marched in silence, without haste. Around us, though, the road thronged with life. The peasants and pilgrims who followed the armies hurried about with whatever they had foraged that day: firewood, berries, roots or grains. One lucky man had trapped a quail, which he dangled from a stick as he proceeded with a phalanx of triumphant companions around him. No less protected were the merchants who bartered with our army, Syrians and Armenians and Saracens alike: they drove their mules amid trains of turbaned guards, stopping only to force harsh bargains with the desperate and hungry. Grey clouds began massing over the mountain to our right, and I quickened my pace lest the rains come again.
We had reached the place where a steep embankment rose above one side of the path when I heard the cry. It was a place that had always made me nervous, for the ground rose higher than my head and any enemy from the west could approach entirely unseen; at the howl that now rose above the earthen parapet I froze, cursing myself for abandoning my armour. The slap of stumbling footsteps came nearer. Sigurd crouched well back from the embankment, his axe held ready. The rest of the company were likewise poised, their eyes searching the edge of the little cliff for danger.
With a stuttering shout, a boy reached the slope and plunged over it, flailing his arms like wings as his feet fell away beneath him. He was lucky we were not archers or he would have died in mid-air; instead, he collapsed onto the road and lay there sobbing, a heap of cloth and flesh and dirt. Sigurd’s axe-head darted forward, but he checked it mid-swing as he saw there was no threat in our new arrival. His clothes were torn and his limbs daubed with mud; his beardless face seemed pale, though we could see little enough of it under the arms which cradled it.
He pressed himself up on his hands and knelt there, his head darting around to look at the fearsome Varangians surrounding him.
‘My master,’ he gulped, pulling a scrawny lock of hair from over his face. Recognising perhaps that I alone held no ferocious axe, he fixed his eyes on mine. ‘My master has been killed.’
β
I pulled the boy up by the neck of his tunic, though he still had to tilt his head back to look me in the eye. ‘Where? Killed by the Turks? Who is your master?’
He wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing it with more grime than he removed. I kept my grip on his shoulder, for there was no strength in his shivering legs. ‘Drogo of Melfi,’ he stammered. ‘In the lord Bohemond’s army. I found him . . .’ His words gave out and he pulled from my grasp, sinking to his knees. ‘I found him over there.’ He pointed back to the top of the embankment whence he had come. ‘Dead.’
I glanced at Sigurd, then at the darkening sky. Part of my mind scolded that too many men had died already that day without taxing my conscience; that a sobbing servant and a dead Norman knight were no concern of mine, especially when Turkish patrols might yet skulk in the countryside. Perhaps, though, it was the accumulation of so many deaths which weighed most on me: confronted by a snivelling boy grieving for his master, I was defenceless.
‘It would be best if your men accompanied us,’ I told Sigurd.
‘Best for whom?’ he retorted. ‘The best course for my men is to return to our camp, before night brings out the Turks and Tafurs and wolves.’
‘Any wolves near here will have been eaten long since. As for the others—’ I turned to the boy. ‘Is it far?’
He shook his head. ‘Not far, Lord.’
‘Then take us quickly.’
We found a path up around the embankment and followed the boy over the broken ground that rose towards the hills on the far side of the plain of Antioch. The red earth was sticky underfoot, and all the grasses sprouted spikes and prickles which tore my legs. We came over a low ridge and looked down into a small hollow in the hillside. It was perhaps fifty feet across and formed like a natural amphitheatre in the rising ground. Perhaps it had once been a quarry, for the surrounding walls were pitted and bitten, but the ground underfoot was soft. In its centre, unmoving in the grey dusk, lay the body of a man.
I crossed quickly and crouched beside him while the Varangians fanned out, sniffing for danger. Behind me I heard Sigurd hiss with disapproval.
‘You found him here?’ I asked the boy, who had knelt opposite me. Tears were running down his face, bright in the gloom, but he seemed to me more frightened than sorrowful.
‘Here,’ he mumbled. ‘I found him here.’
‘How did you know he would be here?’
He looked up, the terror now plain on his face. ‘He was gone from the camp for many hours. The lord William, lord Bohemond’s brother, he told me to find him. I looked everywhere in the camp, and then here. And I found him.’
‘And what made you think he would be here?’ I repeated. We must have come half a mile from the road at least, and none of our army would have been so foolish as to wander here alone.
The boy closed his eyes and squirmed his fingers together. ‘He came here often. Many times I had seen him.’
‘Why? What brought him here?’
My questions were reflexive, the natural consequence of seeing too many men unnaturally dead, but their brusqueness must have alarmed the boy. He trembled in silence, unable to answer.
‘Was this how you found him?’
He nodded.
I stared down at the body before me. Drogo, the boy had called him – and a Norman of Sicily, I guessed, if he had served the lord Bohemond. He lay on his belly in the grass, still and silent as the twilight around us, and for a moment I wondered if he had not been stricken by some ailment, for there were no marks of violence evident. He had not even worn his armour, only a quilted undercoat stained with many weeks’ wear.
But the sour smell of blood in the evening air belied innocent hopes. I put my hand to his shoulder and lifted, pushing him over onto his back. The heavy body fell flat against the ground, and an involuntary whimper breathed through my lips. The Norman Drogo had not died a natural death: he had died because a heavy blade had cut open his throat, pouring out his blood into a puddle on the grass below. It must have been a savage blow, for it had sliced more than halfway through his neck, so that as I moved him his head lolled back to let fresh rivulets of blood trickle down to his collar. It had stained everything: matted the dark hair of his beard, dyed the wool of his quilted tunic, and dashed across the cheekbo
nes that framed the gaping eyes. Some had even splashed onto his forehead.
I saw all this, and doubtless a hundred other aspects of the horror, but one thought drove me above all others.
‘The blood is still wet – still flowing. This happened only a few minutes since.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘If this was the work of a party of Turks, they cannot be far away.’
The boy, still on his knees, stared around in terror. ‘We must find them,’ he mumbled, biting a knuckle until the finger turned white. ‘We must avenge my master.’
‘We must get back to the camp,’ I snapped. I had seen scores of men die similar deaths – many worse – since we left Constantinople; I would not join their number in this lonely place. Night was drawing in from the east, and the rocky walls of the hollow grew evil with shadow.
‘But we will take his body,’ I added. Soon the night’s carrion-eaters would emerge, and the body would become more terrible still if we left it behind.
Sigurd must have shared my thoughts, for he made no complaint as the Varangians formed a rough stretcher from their axe-hafts under the corpse and bore it back to the city. The darkness was complete by the time we reached our lines, and nervous sentries challenged us at every step. Our Byzantine camp was at the north-eastern walls, just behind the Normans of Sicily, and we must have passed through more than a mile of tents and pavilions, of makeshift paddocks, blacksmiths, farriers, fletchers, and armourers, all lit in the irregular glimmer of innumerable campfires. Gaunt faces on swollen bodies begged for food, money or compassion; haggard women asked after lost lovers, or sought new ones; children clawed each other in vicious sport, as the Army of God prepared for the night.
I chose a path which skirted the edge of the Norman encampment, for I did not wish to walk through their midst with one of their dead. Among them were too many veterans of their wars against us, and a Greek carrying a Norman body might be too obvious a provocation.
The boy, who had lagged behind us, now tugged on my arm. ‘Where shall I go?’
I looked into his forlorn eyes. ‘To your master’s tent. Were there any family who accompanied him?’
The boy shook his head, sniffling. ‘A brother, but he died on the march.’
‘Any other companions? Others of Melfi?’
‘Three knights who shared his tent.’
‘Then tell them that we have his body for safe keeping. They may come and claim it from us for burial.’
If we could find space in this land for yet another tomb.
After a meagre supper, I picked my way through the maze of cloth and ropes to a clearing in the heart of our camp where a single tent stood in dignified isolation. Its size, and the richness of its fabric, bespoke a noble occupant, yet it was the solitude and space around which were the true extravagance in that place. Two guards, squat Patzinaks from Thrace, stood by the torches which illuminated the door. They did not challenge me as I stepped inside.
Within the tent the luxury was greater still. Silk curtains of red and gold, woven through with images of eagles and saints, hung from the ceiling to form discreet partitions; thick carpets hid the mud under the floor, while oil lamps on silver tripods gave a steady light to the scene. In the centre of the room stood a broad chair of gilded ebony; behind it, on a stand, three candles burned before a triptych icon of Saints Mercurios, George and Demetrios, each on horseback and wielding his lance. I touched the silver cross that I wore on a chain about my neck and offered a silent prayer to my namesake.
The whisper of parting silks broke the stillness.
‘You are late, Demetrios Askiates,’ said a petulant voice.
I bowed my head. ‘There was a skirmish at the bridge, Lord. And afterwards I had to recover a Norman corpse.’
The general Tatikios stepped into the room and seated himself on the ebony chair. Though none would deny his knowledge of the lands of Asia, I doubted whether the Emperor could have chosen a commander more certain to rile the Frankish allies whom he had been sent to support. Against a race which wished death on any dark-skinned foreigner, Tatikios was a Turkopole, a half-breed whose Turkish blood was evident in his smooth, olive-shaded cheeks and dark eyes; where the Franks deemed headlong charge the only honourable form of war, Tatikios was a subtle tactician who judged any battle a failure of strategy. Worst, in the eyes of men who worshipped brute manhood, Tatikios was a eunuch. And deformed elsewhere, too, for he had lost his nose in combat and now wore a sharp-edged golden prosthesis, giving him something of the aspect of a haughty bird of prey. The barbarians thought him a freak, an effeminate clown, and treated him accordingly. As his nominal servant, I owed more deference.
‘Take a pen,’ he commanded. ‘I must write to the Emperor.’
I did not argue that it would be easier to wait until daylight, for Tatikios, like so many in power, thought only of his own convenience. Nor did I argue that I was not in truth his scribe, for it served both our interests that he should treat me so. I sat down on a stool, hunched by its low height, and took the ivory writing desk from under it. The reed pen was slight between my callused fingers, and I feared that I might snap it merely by touching the paper.
‘To his most serene holy majesty, the Basileus and Autokrator, the Emperor of the Romans Alexios Komnenos: greetings from his servant Tatikios.’
The eunuch frowned to see that my pen could not keep pace with his tongue.
‘The situation at Antioch worsens daily, and is almost intolerable. In the past month, since the Franks defeated the emir of Damascus in battle, their arrogance and insolence has surpassed all bounds. Your noble army and her general are reviled by these barbarians; they speak openly of foreswearing their oaths to you and seizing the land which is owed you for themselves. Now that the winter is past, I urge your holy majesty to hasten to our aid, to take up the leadership of this quest which is rightfully your own and to force the barbarians to obey your commands.’
The air in the tent, heated by its oil lamps and its brazier, was warm about me. As Tatikios continued to speak the sinews between my ear and my hand seemed to dissolve, so that I wrote his words unthinkingly. Released from the moment, my mind turned back eleven months and countless miles, back to spring in the great palace of the city.
‘The Emperor will not go.’
I was standing in one of the lesser courtyards, its pillars wreathed in green ivy. A shallow pool in its centre reflected the clouds of the uncertain sky above, while a bronze Herakles looked down in silence. My companion had just joined me from the hall within and still wore the ceremonial camisia with its gold lion’s-head clasp, and a robe set with many jewels. It might have seemed cumbersome on his young frame, but with the confidence of his stature, and the untroubled certainty in his eyes, he wore it easily. His name was Michael, and the rumour in the palace was that few knew the Emperor’s mind as well as he.
‘The Emperor will not accompany the barbarian army to Asia,’ he elaborated. ‘The council has decided it. He will send gold, and food and men – but not his person.’
I nodded slowly. I had not expected to be summoned to the palace that afternoon, certainty not to hear the outcome of the Emperor’s deliberations. I had not thought that they would concern me.
‘The empire would not benefit. It would be imprudent for him to abandon his capital when his duties demand so much attention. Especially after the tragic loss of his chamberlain.’
I met Michael’s guarded smile, acknowledging the deeper truths behind his words. We both knew why the Emperor could not leave the queen of cities, and it had nothing to do with gathering taxes or attending the business of government. If he absented himself from the throne of power there would be many swift to claim it for themselves, and he would not be the first Emperor returning to the city to find it barred against him.
‘The wise emperor holds the rudder of righteousness against waves of injustice and lawlessness,’ I quoted.
Michael laughed. ‘The wise emperor holds tight to the arms of his throne lest he be swe
pt away.’
‘And will he allow a hundred thousand Franks to march across our lands in Asia, trusting in their oath to restore their conquests to him?’ I had seen the Franks swear it in the great cathedral of Ayia Sophia; rarely had I witnessed an oath that its professors would more readily abjure.
‘He will allow the Franks to march across the Turkish lands of Asia,’ Michael corrected me. ‘If they are successful, and honest, he will gain. If they are unsuccessful, he will have no part of it – he will not become another Diogenes Romanus, tempted into battle too far from home and made captive.’
‘While the loss of a hundred thousand Franks and Normans will not sorrow him too greatly,’ I suggested.
‘When you make allies of your enemies, every battle is a victory.’
I picked a pebble off the ground and tossed it into the pool, sending waves rippling across the reflected sky. ‘And what if the Franks are both successful and dishonest?’
Michael smiled, and eased himself down on the marble parapet surrounding the pool. ‘An Emperor’s mind has many eyes and is ever-vigilant. As a token of his faith with the Franks, the Emperor will send an army of his own to aid them. A small force, but enough to report it if the Franks forget their oaths. The council has appointed Tatikios to command it.’
I sighed, sensing this was more than gossip. ‘Then the Emperor will not need to drag me across Cappadocia and the Anatolics protecting him. I shall say a dozen prayers of gratitude tonight.’
‘Save your prayers: you will soon have greater need of them.’ The humour was gone from Michael’s young face. ‘The Emperor desires you to accompany Tatikios, to serve as his scribe and to report back all you see. They are wild dogs, these barbarians, and the Emperor hunts with them at his peril. He will need swift warning if they turn on him.’
‘And if they turn on me?’
Michael grimaced. ‘While they are hungry, they will obey the hand that feeds them. But if they meet with success, and can feed their appetites themselves – then, Demetrios, be on your guard.’
