by Peter Darman
The gaunt Athanasius slowly rose and held out his hand so the young tonsured monk could place his stick in it. The old man’s brown eyes never left Timothy, whose tongue had been loosened by the wine be had been imbibing.
‘It is my duty to care for the souls of this city and the empire, treasurer,’ he said, ‘including your own. Encouraging usury and mixing with heretics are dangerous practices.’
He turned and walked to the door, the monk opening it for him.
‘If we do not halt the Muslims,’ Timothy called after him, ‘there will be no souls to save, eminence.’
Athanasius did not acknowledge his words. A slave closed the door behind him. Timothy slumped in his chair.
‘Just as well I did not tell him I had spent the night abusing a slave boy.’
*****
Luca had enjoyed a calm voyage to Constantinople after the drama in Epiros, the Aegean and Sea of Marmara being remarkably free of ill winds, storms and squalls. The stopping points pre-arranged by Roger allowed the fleet to replenish its food and water supplies, and happily there were no more violent incidents. Roger ensured all supplies were paid for along the way, thus avoiding potential trouble, and Sancho kept his Almogavars under tight control. But for Luca, the further away from Sicily he travelled, the more his spirits sagged. The celebration of Christmas further dampened his morale, the festivities laid on by Roger, paid for out of his own pocket, only highlighting the fact he was alone in the world, with no family and only Jordi as a friend. Sancho’s son went out of his way to make him feel a part of the Almogavars, which was relatively easy following his exploits outside Messina, and Hector had taken him under his wing. But the Catalans were hardened soldiers and their camaraderie was one of fighting cocks: brutal and unyielding.
‘You need a wife,’ said Jordi, standing beside his friend as they approached the shore south of Constantinople, the end of their journey finally in sight.
Luca was surprised. ‘A wife? I have no money, no land and few prospects.’
His friend slapped him on the back.
‘They say the emperor of Constantinople is rich beyond measure. If we defeat the Muslims, he will shower us with gold. Then you can buy some land and settle down.’
The approaching shoreline looked much the same as they had seen on previous halts – a green strip in the foreground with grey and green mountains further inland.
Jordi slapped him on the back again. ‘At the very least, we will no longer have to eat salted meat stew.’
‘That is something,’ agreed Luca.
George Mouzalon himself greeted the Catalans when they first set foot on Roman soil, the general wearing a suit of glittering scale armour. His horsemen were carrying a host of red banners emblazoned with double-headed yellow eagles – the symbol of Emperor Andronicus. The banners fluttered in the breeze to create an impressive display, but Luca and the rest of the Almogavars barely noticed them, wrapping themselves in their cloaks and pulling their woollen hats down over their ears as a defence against the cold. The wind was bitter and there were flecks of snow in the air, which did nothing to brighten his mood. For some reason, he believed the eastern Mediterranean to be permanently bright and sunny. There was no snow on the ground, which was soft underfoot, indicating recent rainfall.
While the Almogavars and the squires and servants of the Catalan horsemen pitched their tents, George Mouzalon and Roger arranged for the entire company to be paraded in front of the emperor in a display intended to bolster the morale of Constantinople’s citizens. After marching through the city, they would be entertained by the emperor himself in the grounds of his palace, prior to their departure. To where no one quite knew, but after the general had departed Roger and Sancho sat in the latter’s tent being served hot stew by Jordi and Luca. Both had downcast faces.
‘It is a good job the Bastard isn’t here,’ said Sancho grimly.
Roger frowned. ‘You should not call him that. He is the commander of our horsemen and should be treated with respect.’
‘The term is one of endearment,’ smiled Sancho. ‘His parentage will be the least of his problems when he arrives to find his men have no horses.’
Roger stared into the watery stew. ‘The emperor’s position must have deteriorated since I met with his representatives in Sicily.’
‘Surely he has fifteen hundred horses to spare?’ said Sancho.
‘Not according to his general. They will have to be purchased and that will take time.’
‘What do we do in the meanwhile?’
Roger ate a portion of the stew with a spoon, pleasantly surprised by the taste.
‘Well, first of all,’ said Roger, ‘we enjoy the emperor’s hospitality. He is laying on a feast at his palace for the whole company.’
He took a piece of bread from the bowl held by Luca.
‘Ever met an emperor, Black Sheep?’
‘No, lord,’ said Luca.
Roger looked at Jordi. ‘What about you, son of Sancho?’
‘Me neither, lord.’
Sancho glared at the pair, indicating they should retreat into the background. They did so. Roger dipped the bread in his stew.
‘The issue of the horses is but a temporary irritant, and besides as the commander of the horsemen has yet to honour us with his presence, a few weeks of preparation will not go amiss.’
Sancho was appalled by his nonchalant attitude.
‘Have the Muslims stopped their advances? What if they are besieging Constantinople itself in a few weeks?’
Roger finished his stew and called Luca over. ‘Refill this. It does not matter, Sancho, if the Muslims come to us or we go to them. The end result is the same. We will fight them to preserve the emperor and his empire and will be richly rewarded for doing so.’
The Catalan Company made a sorry sight when it gathered at the walls of Constantinople on the morning it was to march through the city to the Blachernae Palace, there to be feasted by Emperor Andronicus in the palace grounds. The horsemen had no horses and trudged along behind their banners, all of which hung limply in the windless, cool morning air. The emperor had sent a hundred horses to allow Roger and the captains and knights of the Catalan horsemen to ride into the city, which did nothing to sweeten the humour of those who had to follow on foot.
The Almogavars always moved on foot, of course, but they did so in small groups, and not as large bodies of troops marching in step like the Roman legions of antiquity. This gave them the appearance of a group of refugees who had fled their homes with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and with their wives and children in tow. But unlike refugees, they were heavily armed, spears in hand, javelins and shields on their backs and swords and daggers in scabbards and sheaths at their hips.
The Catalan Company entered Constantinople via the city’s main ceremonial entrance – the Golden Gate in the extreme south of the wall that faced west. Luca stared in disbelief at the grandeur and strength of the city fortifications. He had never seen anything like them in his life, even the impressive fortifications of Messina paling into insignificance beside the splendour of Constantinople.
The Golden Gate itself was a combination of show and practicality, being a strongly fortified entrance with a triumphal arch sheathed in marble. But the defences themselves, called the Theodosian Wall after the emperor in whose reign they had been built, comprised three lines. The first was the original wall, which stood forty feet high and had ninety-six towers along its length. In front of it stood a second, lower wall with a hundred and ninety-two towers along its length. And in front of the second wall was a third, lower wall with no towers but with a moat in front of it. Most of the towers were not manned and the city garrison was stretched very thinly along the walls, but Luca did not see an absence of guards; he only saw size and power.
He and the other Almogavars were surprised and delighted when they entered the city where they discovered cheering crowds lining the paved street they walked on. Beautiful young girls tossed laure
l leaves at their feet and priests stood beside the street chanting prayers, asking God for his forgiveness for bringing heretics into His city.
Luca fell in love with Constantinople that morning, intoxicated by its spacious, well-paved streets, many fountains and the grand mansions of the wealthy. Plus, the warm welcome extended to him and the rest of the Catalan Company, which appeared genuine and heartfelt. He did not know that the great days of Constantinople were long gone, that many of the splendid buildings of antiquity were either gone or had fallen into disrepair. The Great Palace, the city within a city where Roman emperors had lived, was partly ruined and mostly abandoned. The Forum of Constantine was now the city’s main emporium, surrounded by the quarters of artisans. The Forum of Theodosius was now a pig market, with a hay market and slave market just a stone’s throw away. Large areas within the city walls were pastoral, given over to grazing cattle. Outside the walls, the quarries that had supplied the city with marble and other luxury stones lay abandoned, builders instead relying on spoil taken from the ruins of old buildings to construct new abodes. But to Luca such things were irrelevant. He was in the greatest city on earth and a guest of its emperor.
That emperor sat on a golden throne surrounded by high priests, nobles and their wives dressed in silks and wearing much gold when the Catalans reached the Blachernae Palace, the impressive Varangian Guard manning its walls and standing guard near Andronicus himself. The emperor smiled and raised his hand when Roger, the mounted Catalan captains and the senior Almogavar commanders passed by, Luca and Jordi trailing close behind. They both gasped in astonishment at the golden armour being worn by Andronicus, which was actually a scale armour cuirass made up of overlapping and highly polished brass plates. The crown he wore on his head was gold, as was the pectoral cross around the neck of a frowning Patriarch Athanasius standing next to the emperor.
Treasury Timothy leaned forward to whisper in the ear of the Co-Emperor Michael as the Almogavars filed past the royal party.
‘Are we certain we have hired the right mercenaries, highness?’
Michael waved at the Almogavars.
‘They don’t look much, but General Mouzalon assures me they are very good at what they do.’
‘They look like a collection of bandits,’ said Timothy derisively. ‘I hope we do not live to regret bringing these Catholics to Constantinople, highness. They strike the fear of God into me, but I doubt they will have the same effect on the infidels.’
The Catalan Company was entertained in huge pavilions pitched in the sprawling grounds of the Blachernae Palace, the emperor not wanting his home to be invaded by an army of foreign mercenaries and their scruffy camp followers. But, in a scene deliberately reminiscent of the great feasts that took place on the Field of Mars in Rome hundreds of years before, the emperor’s hospitality was most generous.
Luca did not know whether to eat the food on offer or wear it, so rich and spectacular was it. The army of cooks in the palace had produced a feast fit for a king, or at least a grand duke, which Roger would become as soon as he married the sixteen-year-old girl waiting in the palace. The leader of the Catalan Company took his leave and accompanied the emperor and his entourage into the palace where Patriarch Athanasius would conduct the ceremony.
Luca did not care about weddings or politics as he sat with Jordi at a long table with his father, the other Almogavar commanders and their wives, around them excited chatter and cheers as dozens of slaves ferried food and drink from the kitchens. And what food!
The first course comprised dishes that were green and gold, a mixture of saffron, egg yolk and green vegetables. Cutlery had been laid on the tables but the Almogavars used their fingers to stuff their faces, much to the amusement of the slaves. The second course of almond milk stews was white, while the third – beef in gravy – was red.
‘This city is rich,’ smiled Angel, feeding one of his whores a piece of beef with his fingers.
Hector picked up the silver table fork in front of him.
‘We should take all these and use them to purchase horses. Far more useful than items decorating tables.’
‘We will do no such thing,’ said Sancho sternly. ‘You must have noticed the disapproving looks on the faces of the high and mighty around the emperor. They already think we are a bunch of unwashed barbarians. We do not want to add thieves to the list.’
Luca’s attention was fixed on a beautiful female slave refilling the silver goblets of those around him. She had flawless olive skin, alluring brown eyes and a shapely figure. He could not take his eyes off her. When she stood beside him to charge his goblet, he noticed she was wearing perfume, which only increased her attraction. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet aroma of the scent she was wearing. He felt something strike his face.
‘The Black Sheep is in love.’
He opened his eyes to see Angel smiling at him and about to throw another piece of bread at him. Luca blushed with embarrassment and stared down at his bowl of meat, aware the others were looking in his direction. Jordi poked him in the ribs.
‘He has no time for such things,’ growled Sancho, ‘not with a war to fight.’
Angel placed an arm around the shoulders of the two whores flanking him.
‘There is always time for such things, my friend.’
‘Leave the poor boy alone,’ said Carla forcefully. ‘Try to remember when you were young and infatuated. Ignore them, Luca, they are just resentful they have lost their youth and beauty.’
Hector laughed. ‘I doubt Sancho was ever beautiful.’
‘Unlike me,’ smiled Angel, prompting the whores to kiss him on the cheek.
An Almogavar appeared behind Marc, who turned.
‘Yes?’
‘Trouble outside, sir.’
The atmosphere changed in an instant. Where before it had been jovial, now it became tense, threatening. Sancho jumped up, picked up the javelins at his feet and yanked free the spear that had been thrust into the earth behind him. It was as if a silent command had been issued and heard by the Almogavars. Like a flock of birds changing shape and direction in mid-air, tables were soon emptying of soldiers, all equipping themselves with spears and javelins and following their commanders from the pavilion.
Once the emperor of Constantinople had a fleet of ships that numbered hundreds of vessels. They transported grain from the colony of Egypt to feed the city and carried soldiers to the far corners of the empire to enforce the emperor’s will. That was now a distant memory and most of the ships moored in the Golden Horn were Genoese, the Italian republic having established trading colonies throughout the Mediterranean and made much money from the lucrative slave trade. It was slaves who rowed Genoese galleys, and it was Genoese officials who became princes in the trading colonies, amassing great wealth and surrounding themselves with armed retainers to defend their interests and those of the republic, in that order.
One of those self-made princes now stood in front of a horde of armed men in the grounds of the Blachernae Palace. Such was the power and influence of the Genoese that the guards had meekly stood aside when the armed mob had demanded entry.
Rosso of Finar was an unattractive man. He was a big-boned individual with long, greasy hair, a bulbous nose and a disfigured mouth twisted into a permanent leer. A former galley captain who had shared in a great victory over the Venetian navy at the Battle of Meloria nearly twenty years before, he had cemented Genoese power in the eastern Mediterranean and had amassed a great personal fortune in the process. He had lent money to Treasurer Timothy to ship the Catalan Company to Constantinople.
Rosso was dressed in a fine hauberk and a red surcoat emblazoned with a white cross – the coat of arms of Genoa – but the majority of his followers were dressed in padded jerkins or simple tunics. All had weapons of some sort, ranging from axes and clubs to swords, together with shields bearing the colours of Genoa. Some were drunk. All were up for a fight.
Rosso and Sancho were toe to toe, staring at each o
ther with unblinking eyes. Luca detected the aroma of alcohol in the air. Clearly, many men on both sides had drunk to excess. Though not the two commanders.
‘So, you are the saviours of the emperor,’ said Rosso dismissively, speaking in his native tongue.
‘It is considered bad manners to turn up to a feast uninvited,’ replied Sancho.
‘I will get straight to the point,’ said Rosso, ‘I want my money.’
‘What money?’
Rosso sighed. ‘The money I loaned to the imperial treasury so the emperor could bring you here. Who do you think paid for the ships and their crews that brought your sorry looking arses to this great city?’
‘I know nothing about such things,’ said Sancho, bored by this loud-mouthed oaf standing before him.
‘But you and your mercenaries have been paid four months in advance, have you not?’ smiled Rosso.
‘Our business is no concern of yours, pirate. Be gone from this place.’
‘You think you can intimidate me, you…’
Sancho plunged the knife he had slipped from its sheath into the Italian’s throat, holding the blade firmly in place while Rosso thrashed around wildly as his lifeblood showered the leader of the Almogavars. Seconds after he had stabbed the Genoese governor of Galata, hundreds of javelins flew through the air, striking Italian faces and torsos.
Luca knew violence would erupt. He could smell it in the air, which crackled with tension, like the moment before a bowstring was released. Ever since he had provoked the battle outside Messina, Luca realised he relished the experience of battle. His conduct in that encounter had been shaped by pure rage, an uncontrollable fury born of seeing his parents butchered before his eyes. But the battle on the beach had been different. He had experienced a brief moment of hesitation before the training he had received had kicked in, enabling him to perform as an effective part of the Almogavars. But he had felt a surge of elation when he began killing, as though his spirit had been released from captivity and was free to roam at will. It was as if his life as a shepherd had been a disguise, masking his true purpose in life – to excel in battle.