Vallon 02 - Imperial Fire

by Robert Lyndon

  Vallon slapped the bench. ‘Sit down and fill a cup.’ He drank from his own. ‘My next assignment will be the most testing of my career.’

  ‘All the more reason why I should be at your side.’

  ‘You were at my side on the Dnieper and left me in the lurch.’

  Wulfstan grimaced. ‘I’ll never desert you again. My word before God. Besides, Aiken will need me. I can’t fathom the lad, but I’ve grown fond of him and want to be there to look out for him.’ Vallon must have glanced at his stump. ‘Don’t worry about that. Even with one hand, I’m a better soldier than most.’

  ‘It’s not that. This campaign is no ordinary military venture.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The troubled expression you’ve worn since you returned from the palace in winter. Your lady’s tears. The way Hero turned up out of the blue. The hours you and him spend shut away. And now Wayland’s arrival.’

  Vallon made a violent fanning gesture. ‘Wayland’s no part of it. He has a family to look after.’

  ‘But I don’t – not one of my own.’

  Vallon raised bleary eyes. ‘You really want to come?’

  ‘I do, sir. Much as I love your family, I’m going nuts guarding a door. I may be a Christian; I love the chanting in church. But I’m still a Viking.’

  Vallon sighed. ‘Oh, God. Why not?’

  Wulfstan pumped Vallon’s hands. ‘Thank you, General. You won’t find me wanting.’

  ‘My lady will need another house minder.’

  ‘I’ve already found one. Pepin, the veteran who steered Lucas to your door.’

  Vallon glanced towards the gatehouse. ‘I’d almost forgotten about Lucas. All right, arrange for Pepin to meet me.’

  He walked rather unsteadily towards the house and found Peter waiting inside the door with a cowled lamp. ‘Everyone’s asleep,’ the servant whispered. ‘Your English guests are quite worn out.’

  Vallon followed Peter’s light, stole into his bedchamber and in an agony of stealth slid under the covers. Caitlin’s nightdress caressed his skin. He closed his eyes and was almost asleep when he realised from her tiny convulsions that she was weeping. He sat up and leaned over.

  ‘Aiken told you.’

  She swung round and threw her arms around him. Tears splashed on his cheek.

  ‘I’m pregnant and this time I know it’s a boy.’

  ‘But that’s marvellous, a cause for celebration.’

  She swung her head, her hair swishing across Vallon’s cheeks. ‘I know you won’t live to see either him or me, and Aiken tells me he means to go with you. You’re robbing me of everything I hold dear.’

  IX

  Hero removed the bandage from Lucas’s head and examined the wound. ‘Those stitches can come out. You’re a quick healer and you’ve got a thick skull. How are your ribs?’

  ‘Knitting well. I’ve seen Wayland. He looks exactly as I imagined him. Eyes like blue flames.’

  ‘Why are you grinning like that?’

  Lucas reclined on his pillows. ‘I’ve been thinking. First you arrive in Constantinople and then a week later Wayland turns up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s obvious. You must be off on another adventure.’

  Hero bridled. ‘For an uninvited guest, you display unwarranted familiarity. In any case, you’re wrong. Wayland’s returning to England with his family.’

  Lucas watched Hero make for the door. ‘I know something’s going on. I’ve never seen Wulfstan so cheerful, singing hymns all day long. And yesterday I saw him sharpening his sword and polishing his armour. He’s preparing to go on campaign.’

  Hero seemed about to speak, thought better of it, then exited, leaving Lucas grinning in his wake.

  A few days later Lucas was staring, bored and fretful, through the window when Wulfstan stuck his head through the door. ‘Are you up to riding a horse?’

  ‘Of course I am. There isn’t a steed I can’t manage.’

  ‘Don’t be so cocky. The general doesn’t like it and it’s him you have to impress.’

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘No promises, but demonstrate you’re a good horseman and Vallon might find you a place in his squadron.’

  For all Lucas’s swagger, he approached the stable with churning trepidation. Vallon’s casual glance struck like a blow. This was the first time the general had seen his face. Surely he’d spot some family resemblance.

  Vallon barely registered his presence before nodding at a placid-looking bay mare.

  ‘Let’s see if your actions match your boasts.’

  Lucas swung into the saddle with one move and waited for Vallon to mount with stiff decorum. They ambled out into the open country beyond Galata. Vallon drew rein.

  ‘Show me your paces. Don’t force it. Have consideration for your ribs.’

  For the next half hour, Lucas trotted, cantered, wheeled, stopped and backed up, finally urging his horse into a circling gallop that brought him up short within three feet of the general.

  ‘I’m used to more fiery mounts,’ he gasped.

  ‘When did you learn to ride?’

  ‘Before I could walk.’

  ‘That would explain your good seat. I like the way you don’t rely too much on your stirrups.’

  ‘I didn’t ride with stirrups until I was eight.’

  Vallon watched a buzzard rising on a thermal. ‘Are you fit enough to wield a sword in earnest? If not, say so. I won’t hold it against you.’

  ‘I think I am, sir.’

  Without another word, Vallon turned his horse and headed back to the villa. Lucas kept darting glances at him, words rising unbidden before choking in his throat.

  ‘Is something bothering you?’ Vallon said without looking round.

  ‘No, sir.’ Lucas’s tongue felt thick. Now wasn’t the time. He’d know the right moment when it came.

  Next morning Wulfstan arrived with a suit of padded lint, a helmet and a wooden practice sword.

  ‘Who am I fighting?’

  ‘Aiken.’

  ‘Aiken! He fights like a girl.’

  Wulfstan’s eyes widened alarmingly. ‘Would you rather cross blades with me?’

  ‘It would be a more even contest.’

  The Viking clipped Lucas around the head. ‘Cheeky bastard. Even with only one hand, I could spit you in six moves. That’s for another day. Come on. Vallon’s waiting.’

  In the courtyard garden that served for an arena, Aiken mooched in nervous circles. Vallon and Hero stood at a distance.

  ‘Don your helmets,’ Wulfstan said.

  ‘I don’t need one,’ said Lucas. ‘It’s not as if we’re using real swords.’

  Wulfstan bristled. ‘I’ve seen men die from pates cracked by practice swords. Put it on.’ He retreated a few paces. ‘Bow, touch swords and engage.’

  For a while Aiken held his own, countering with some elegant moves and even threatening a flank attack. Once Lucas broke through his guard, though, the English youth’s defences collapsed. He fell apart, shrinking into a flat-footed cringe and wafting his sword in a feeble attempt to keep his opponent at bay. Lucas rained blows on him, each stroke precisely delivered, one to each quarter and then a one-two to the head that staggered Aiken. Lucas began to play with his opponent, walking in a tight circle around him, naming the part he would strike next.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Wulfstan. He grabbed Lucas’s arm. ‘I said that’s enough.’

  Lucas lowered his sword and skipped from foot to foot, panting and sweating. ‘I still haven’t recovered my full strength.’

  Aiken, scarlet with humiliation, swung his sword listlessly then walked away.

  Wulfstan and Vallon conversed. Lucas waited for their verdict, smug in the knowledge that he’d trounced an opponent who’d received professional training. His grin died when Vallon beckoned him over.

  ‘Your master taught you well, but you’ve got a lot to learn. For a start, you don’t toy wi
th an opponent. If he presents an opening, you go for the kill. That’s your job. Showing off is unprofessional, vain and ugly. I won’t allow it in my command.’

  Lucas reddened and looked down. ‘Does that mean you’ll let me serve under your standard?’

  ‘Tomorrow you join the Outlanders at Hebdomon. Aiken will be going with you. The two of you will be the youngest members of the squadron. I trust that you’ll look out for each other, like true spear-companions.’

  Lucas’s chest fluttered with excitement. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘There are only twenty Franks in the squadron. The rest are drawn from all over the empire and beyond. That’s why we’re called the Outlanders. You’ll be serving alongside Thracians, Macedonians, Bulgarians, Serbs, Poles, Hungarians, Russians, Armenians, Pechenegs, Cumans, Seljuks… If God made him, he’s in my squadron. And the thing is, they’re a tight outfit, rough and ready but always loyal to each other. Fit in and they’ll defend you to the death. Show them the contemptuous attitude you presented to Aiken and they’ll smother you under your mattress on your first night.’

  Lucas examined his feet.

  ‘You’ll be entering the tower of Babel,’ Vallon continued. ‘Greek is our common language. You’ll take lessons daily and in two weeks I expect you to understand the basic commands. Do you have anything to say?’

  Lucas raised his eyes. Vallon’s expression conveyed professional impatience. Lucas contemplated the ground again.

  ‘I won’t disappoint you,’ he said. Then, writhing at his betrayal of his slaughtered mother and dead siblings, he added ‘sir’ in a tone that made Vallon squint at him before turning away.

  ‘Your manners could do with improving,’ the general said. ‘Look to them.’

  Lucas and Aiken travelled to the barracks together on a caique, Aiken with his head in a book the entire journey, Lucas contemptuous yet intrigued that words on a page could be so absorbing.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he said at last.

  ‘Euclid’s Geometry.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  Aiken didn’t look up. ‘If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.’

  Lucas sucked in his cheeks and smiled around for the benefit of an invisible audience. He stretched out his legs. ‘You think you’re clever.’

  Aiken transferred only part of his attention from the book. ‘I know I am. It’s one of the few things I’m certain of.’

  Lucas pulled in his legs and leaned forward. ‘Your book learning won’t be of much use in the army.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  Lucas sniffed. ‘I expect you think that being Vallon’s son will make things go easy for you.’

  A contemptuous glance from Aiken. ‘That shows how little you know the general.’

  Lucas composed his next words with care. ‘I’ve never heard you call him “father”.’

  ‘Because he isn’t.’

  ‘Do you wish he was?’

  Aiken laid his book down. ‘I wish I’d known my real father. He wasn’t Beorn, as I expect you’ve heard.’

  Aiken’s frankness reduced Lucas to silence.

  ‘What about your family?’ Aiken said.

  ‘Dead. All except my father. He disappeared on campaign when I was five.’

  Aiken’s quiet eyes engaged his. ‘I’m sorry.’

  For a moment the two youths faced each other across the voids in their lives. Lucas broke the bond with a ragged laugh. ‘I know he’s still alive. I’ve got proof of it. One day I’ll catch up with him, and when I do…’ Lucas swung his head and stared into the wave glitter.

  ‘I pray that the day will come soon,’ said Aiken. He took up his book again. ‘If you don’t mind… I suspect I won’t have much time for reading in the barracks.’

  Hebdomon Fort on the Marmara shore housed four squadrons, each occupying a square complex with three barracks, a bath house large enough to serve a hundred men, a stable block, a parade ground, granaries, storerooms and an armoury. Outside the perimeter an exercise field sloped down to the sea.

  A guard at the gate marched Lucas and Aiken to the duty officer’s quarters. Soldiers lounging outside their barracks followed their progress with mild curiosity. Vallon was right about them being drawn from all corners and cultures. Lucas saw blue-eyed, tattooed giants from realms of mist and snow, agate-eyed Turks as lean as whips, small dark men from unknown mountain fastnesses, warriors with tribal scars. Some wore beards; others were clean-shaven. The only thing they seemed to have in common was a drab green uniform and an unforced air of toughness.

  The guard led the two youths inside one of the barracks, stopped outside an office and saluted. ‘The new troopers reporting for duty, sir.’

  A trim man of middling height rose from a table covered with papers. His fingers were ink-stained and his eyes strained from writing. An embroidered gold roundel on his tunic indicated his rank.

  ‘My name’s Josselin,’ he said in French. ‘Second Centurion in the Outlanders. You’ll be attached to my hekatontarchia. Your pay is six solidi a year, rising to nine solidi after a year’s service. Payment is made every four months. Trooper Lucas, half your pay will be withheld to pay off the cost of your horse and equipment. At that rate you’ll clear the debt in three years – unless you win promotion or share in the spoils of war. It’s important that you learn to speak Greek. I’ve arranged lessons for you – an hour a day after your ordinary duties.’

  Centurion Josselin then lectured them about hygiene and warned them about the perils of gambling and intercourse with either sex. ‘The punishment for minor offences ranges from withdrawal of your wine ration to a twenty-mile forced march in full kit. More serious offences merit a flogging. Vallon doesn’t like seeing his men flogged; he’d rather dismiss the offender. For treachery or desertion, the sentence is death. In six years, we’ve had only two executions. Have you taken all that in?’

  Lucas had listened in a daze. All he could think of was that he was in a cavalry unit and was even being paid and fed.

  He and Aiken went through the swearing-in ceremony. ‘We swear by God, Christ and the Holy Spirit, and by the Majesty of the Emperor – which second to God is to be loved and worshipped as His commander on Earth – that we will strenuously do all that the Emperor may command, will never desert the service, nor refuse to die for the Byzantine state.’

  ‘You’re now members of the Outlanders,’ said Josselin. He nodded at the waiting guard. ‘Show these men their billet.’

  Eight men occupied two adjoining whitewashed rooms in one of the barracks. The outer chamber was a common room. Some off-duty troopers broke off games of dice. Three NCOs stood to receive the new recruits. A man with gap teeth laughed.

  ‘Maybe we should change our name to the Baby-Snatchers.’

  ‘That will do,’ said the tall, slope-shouldered senior NCO. He studied the new recruits. ‘I’m Aimery, your dekarchos, leader of ten.’ He spoke softly and had a kindly manner. He gestured at the other soldiers. ‘These are your squadmates. You’ll eat, sleep and drill with them. On campaign you’ll share a tent and in battle you’ll fight as a unit. Your beds are in the next room. Keep them immaculate.’

  ‘What happened to the men we’re replacing?’ said Aiken.

  Aimery’s expression didn’t alter. ‘One died of fever on the Danube, the other was killed by the Normans at Dyrrachium.’

  He showed the recruits into the dormitory, its floor clean enough to eat off. Aiken dumped two heavy kitbags on his bed. Lucas possessed only a few personal items in a satchel.

  Aimery turned to one of his NCOs. ‘Gorka, take trooper Lucas to the stores. Gorka is my pentarchos, leader of five. He’ll be in charge of your basic training.’

  Even before the sergeant said the name, Lucas had guessed that Gorka was a Basque. The heavy brow forming a straight line, the long ear lobes, the barrel chest. On the walk to the quartermaster’s store, Lucas wondered if he should tender some remark about their shared homeland, but decided
from Gorka’s expression that pleasantries weren’t in order.

  Gorka dumped himself on a bale of tents while the quartermaster outfitted Lucas. He handed him two knee-length tunics, two pairs of breeches, all in linen, and a wide leather belt. For cold weather he provided an ankle-length woollen tunic and a wool cloak fastened by a fibula in the shape of a flying falcon. The same motif was woven on the right chest of the tunics. A felt hat and two pairs of sandals completed Lucas’s day-to-day wear.

  ‘I expected the uniform to be more colourful,’ Lucas said.

  Gorka came off the bale. ‘Colourful,’ he said. He looked from side to side as if he doubted his hearing. ‘We’re scouts and raiders. We blend in. We don’t flutter around like a bunch of butterflies.’

  Lucas flinched from his gaze. Gorka’s green-brown eyes suggested a capacity for infinite malice. He lurched towards the door with a wrestler’s gait and Lucas followed, resolving to keep his mouth shut.

  The armoury was the next stop – a hall surrounded by a warren of bays and alcoves exuding the odours of leather, iron and wax. A one-legged veteran and three assistants presided over the martial emporium. The armourer, propped on crutches, sized Lucas up and said something. An assistant rummaged in one of the bays and brought back a heavy quilted jacket that had seen better days. On it he placed a battered iron helmet with an aventail of boiled-leather lappets that gave some protection to the neck. He also produced a pair of knee-length leather boots. Lucas was disappointed. He’d dreamed of receiving a bodice of mail or, even better, a coat of lamellar armour.

  Gorka read his mind. ‘Forget it. You’d still be paying off mail or scale by the time you retire. The only way you’ll come by decent armour is by stripping it off the enemy.’

  The armourer’s assistants had disappeared into the bowels of the depot. One came back with a short recurved bow, a canvas case and three coiled bowstrings. The second with a lance and two javelins. The third with a shield and sword.

  Gorka picked up the bow. ‘Ever used one of these?’

  ‘Not a bow shaped like that.’

  ‘It’s Turkish, designed to be shot from horseback.’