by Peter Darman
Izzeddin would have none of it. ‘With Allah’s help I will scatter your enemies and bring the Artake Peninsula under your rule, lord.’
‘I have given orders for a mosque to be built on the acropolis,’ said Karesi.
Izzeddin was underwhelmed. ‘Another building of marble and gold?’
‘A place for believers to worship,’ the emir shot back.
But the holy man ignored him as he took his leave. Karesi found the Sufi liking for the ascetic life amusing but also irritating. Izzeddin had told him that the Sufis believed in approaching Allah during this lifetime, rather than waiting until after death to become closer to God. Part of this dogma was a reaction against what they saw as the materialism of some Islamic practices, such as building grandiose mosques to signify a ruler’s devotion. To men such as Izzeddin Arslan, such gestures were meaningless.
*****
As winter gave way to spring, the Catalan Company still found itself near Constantinople, though the emperor’s son had moved the mercenaries across the Bosporus to confront an anticipated offensive by Osman Bey, who had established his kingdom in northwest Anatolia four years previously. The victor of the Battle of Bapheus had a large army ready to strike at Constantinople, but his military success had prompted jealousy among the other beys, forcing him to split his army into several parts to guard the frontiers of his expanding kingdom. As a result, no attack against Constantinople materialised.
Such things did not concern Luca, who was enjoying the hospitality of the emperor, who sent generous amounts of food across the Bosporus to feed the Catalans. He had never eaten as much or as well in his whole life.
The Catalans feasted on freshly caught fish, mountains of bread and cheese, and an abundance of vegetables, fruit and wine. His body responded to the excellent nutrition and rigorous training the Almogavars undertook each day, becoming stronger, more muscular and possessed of great stamina. Outside Messina he found the incessant long-distant marches tiring. Now he relished them. Whereas before the weapons he was forced to haul on marches had been cumbersome and painful to carry, now they felt part of him. The straps holding the javelin quiver on his back were adjusted so they did not chafe, the scabbard at his hip properly placed so it did not flap around like a fish out of water when on the move, and the small, round shield – around two feet in diameter – was slung on the left side of his back out of the way.
When he had been a shepherd he had lived a life of isolation. Now he was part of a close-knit group of men, and women, whose profession was war. He had given no thought to the revelation that he revelled in the cauldron of battle. But had given thanks to God he had fought well on the three occasions when he had been tested, which had led to him being embraced by the Almogavar brotherhood. Even Sancho Rey was being less hostile to him.
The head of the Almogavar council slammed his fist on the table.
‘We have been sitting on our arses for over two months, waiting for the Turks to attack. And now you are telling me they are not going to.’
Grand Duke Roger pointed at Jordi and then his cup, indicating it should be refilled with wine. Sancho’s son walked forward and did so. Taking his cue from his friend, Luca also went to top up Sancho’s cup, but the Almogavar waved him away.
‘I’ll have some more,’ said Hector.
‘Me too,’ chimed in Marc.
Sancho pointed at the handsome Corberan of Navarre, knight, crusader and temporary commander of the company’s horsemen, which still had no horses.
‘What about his horses?’
‘Treasurer Timothy has assured me they are on the way from Bulgaria,’ explained Roger, ‘but craves your patience a little longer.’
‘My men are unhappy, lord duke,’ said Corberan, immaculate in his red surcoat emblazoned with a shield of gold chains with a green emerald in the centre, representing the breaking of the Muslim slave-soldiers’ chains by Spanish horsemen at the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa, a victory won by King Sancho of Navarre a century before.
‘With good reason,’ agreed Sancho. ‘What use are horsemen without horses?’
‘Perhaps we should ask the Genoese for a loan so we can buy our own horses,’ suggested Hector.
The other Almogavars laughed, but Roger remained stony faced.
‘We don’t want any more trouble.’
‘We,’ said Sancho, ‘have not been corrupted by the court of Constantinople, Roger. Or should I call you lord duke?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Roger.
‘You want to be careful, Roger,’ said Angel. ‘You spend too much time at court and they might chop off your balls like they have with the eunuch Timothy.’
‘Imagine that,’ said Marc, ‘a man without any balls as lord treasurer of a great city.’
Luca involuntarily laughed, prompting everyone to look at him. Sancho gave him a wry smile.
‘You are right to laugh, Black Sheep, for it is laughable. We are beholden to a man who has no balls.’
‘Eunuchs have always held high positions in the empire,’ said a stern-faced Roger. ‘They are accorded great respect. We are strangers in this land and should respect its laws and customs.’
Angel shuddered. ‘How can a man hold his head up high if he has no balls?’
‘I wonder when they cut off his balls?’ asked Marc.
‘When he was a boy,’ answered Roger.
‘He had done the same to the company,’ seethed Sancho. ‘For without horses, our effectiveness is greatly diminished.’
‘Timothy has agreed to ship the horses directly to Artake,’ said Roger. ‘I think we should make plans for our departure immediately. The emperor has received an urgent summons from the provincial general there for reinforcements.’
‘Is he a eunuch, too?’ asked Sancho.
‘No,’ groaned Roger. ‘I think we should move on from eunuchs.’
‘Will you be coming with us?’ enquired Angel. ‘Seeing as you are now a married man with a pretty young wife.’
Roger drank from his cup and held it out for Jordi to top up.
‘I will, Angel. I have no desire to stay at the court of the emperor for a day longer than I have to.’
‘And your wife?’ grinned Hector.
‘Is none of your business,’ said Roger. ‘On a happier note, I can tell you that I have secured the services of a thousand Alan horsemen to bolster our efforts.’
His declaration was met with silence, which surprised him somewhat. Sancho drained his cup and held it out to Luca to be refilled. A brisk breeze that had picked up began to batter the sides of the tent they were seated in. The Almogavars were simple, straightforward individuals who cared little for politics or the machinations of court life. Corberan of Navarre was altogether different, and went out of his way to find out as much as possible about the laws, customs and history of the region he was fighting in. Like many knights, he was fluent in several languages, including Greek, which meant he could converse with the natives of Constantinople. He had also struck up an affinity with the commander of the emperor’s army, such as it was, General Mouzalon, who had informed him the Alans had deserted him at Bapheus. Corberan had informed the council of their base actions.
‘We have no use for cowards,’ said Sancho.
‘We should kill the Alans and give their horses to Corberan,’ said Hector.
Angel and Marc both laughed but Roger was far from amused.
‘It is the emperor’s express wish that the Alans accompany us, and I have agreed to his desire. He is our paymaster, after all, and we should respect his wishes.’
‘Talking of which,’ said Sancho, ‘can I reminded your lordship that we have been paid for four months’ work, two of which have already expired. I assume we will receive further payment before we depart for our new destination?’
‘The treasurer has assured me we will be paid promptly,’ Roger assured him.
‘You trust this man with no balls?’ asked Marc.
‘I trust his desire to preserve
his great city from the Muslims, Marc,’ said Roger irritably.
‘Actions speak louder than words,’ said Hector.
‘An old saying that has much merit,’ agreed Corberan.
But, much to the surprise of the Almogavars, two days later hundreds of horses arrived at Constantinople to mount Corberan’s men. They were not the destriers that carried Christendom’s knights but mares and geldings. Mostly of Hungarian and Thessalian stock, they were in good condition and kitted out with bridles and saddles when they reached Constantinople. Corberan was happy, his men were happy and the Almogavars were pacified, the more so since the Alans had failed to arrive at the city. Sancho, buoyed by the arrival of the horses, gave Jordi and Luca each a pouch of money and acquiesced to their burning desire to explore the great city before they left for Artake.
‘Are you armed?’ Sancho asked the pair on the morning of their excursion.
They shook their heads.
‘No, father,’ said Jordi.
Sancho offered them a pair of daggers with wicked blades.
‘Never go anywhere without a weapon.’
They grinned and reached out to grasp the dagger handles. Sancho held on to the blades.
‘Don’t get drunk. Don’t get robbed. And remember that just because a city has beautiful buildings, it does not mean it is full of virtuous people. Watch your backs.’
Jordi kissed his mother on the cheek and Luca embraced her before the pair sauntered off to the ferry across the Bosporus. She watched them go and gripped her husband’s arm.
‘I feel helpless,’ she said.
‘Jordi is a battle-hardened veteran,’ Sancho reassured her. ‘I think he can handle a stroll through a city.’
‘And Luca?’
‘The Black Sheep? Hector told me the shepherd is a natural killer and coming from him that is saying something.’
‘I hope they stay clear of brothels,’ said Carla.
Sancho laughed. ‘They are red-blooded young men with pouches of money. What do you think?’
She jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Sometimes, you can be so ungodly.’
Constantinople was beautiful that spring morning, the sun shining on a glittering, calm sea, illuminating the great buildings within the metropolis. Each may have harboured salacious thoughts, but as soon as they alighted from the ferry that docked at the harbour on the south side of the city, Luca and Jordi had only one aim: to visit the Church of Saint Sophia. Like thousands of others who had been drawn to the largest Orthodox church in the world like moths to a flame, they were overwhelmed by its scale, beauty and opulence.
The church’s profile dominated the city skyline, its great dome stunning in size, made more striking by the great buttresses that supported it. The pair could only gawp at the engineering marvel, the like of which they had never seen before. The church was the seat of the Patriarch of Constantinople and the main venue for church councils and imperial ceremonies. But it was also a place of worship, open to all and sundry who wished to pray to the Lord.
In a daze the two friends wandered into the massive church, the interior lit by thousands of candles and giant icons illuminated by lamps hanging in front of them. The church was a treasure trove of coloured marbles and gold and blue mosaics. Semi-domes sheltered the apse and two antechambers at the western entrance, called a narthex, through which Luca and Jordi entered Saint Sophia.
Luca stared up at a mosaic showing a man kneeling at the foot of a man seated on a throne.
‘Is that an emperor?’
Jordi shrugged. ‘I do not know.’
Both illiterate, they had no idea who they were looking at. The answer was provided by a female voice behind them, who spoke in perfect Italian. They turned and beheld a vision of grace and beauty, a middle-aged woman with flawless fair skin, golden hair, green eyes and a slender figure. That figure was encased in a stunning heavy woven white and red kaftan embroidered with geometric patterns in gold thread. The garment’s sleeves were long to ensure none of her flesh above the wrists was exposed, with a tight neckline to preserve modesty. She wore gold earrings, a gold necklace from which hung an emerald-encrusted crucifix, and gold rings on her fingers. The shoes that poked out from beneath her kaftan were red.
She pointed up at the mosaic, her voice soft and soothing.
‘The man kneeling is Emperor Leo the Sixth, who is performing an act of respect to Christ, who sits on a jewelled throne.’
‘That is Christ?’ uttered Luca, spellbound.
‘He looks just like a man,’ said Jordi.
‘He was a man,’ the woman told him, ‘a poor carpenter who went among the people to spread the word of God. You see our Lord is holding a book, upon which are the words “Peace be with you. I am the light of the Lord”. With his right hand, he is blessing the emperor.’
‘Who are the people in the circles either side of Christ?’ asked Jordi.
‘The woman in the blue dress and headdress is the Virgin Mary,’ she answered. ‘The other is the Archangel Gabriel.’
They fell into silence, the woman looking at the two young men. They in turn staring in wonder at the beautiful mosaic of Christ, others in the church depicting the Virgin Mary, Christian saints, emperors and empresses.
‘You are Italian?’ the woman probed.
‘From Sicily, lady,’ answered Luca.
‘We are here to fight for Christ,’ said Jordi proudly.
She looked at their curious sheepskin coats and rudimentary footwear and smiled.
‘Then may God go with you,’ she said before smiling and leaving them.
‘Who was she?’ asked Jordi.
‘A noblewoman, that’s for certain,’ said Luca, who caught sight of a shifty individual following the woman. He nodded in the man’s direction.
‘I think she is in trouble.’
They followed the swarthy individual out of the church and into the sunshine, around them hundreds of people milling around the streets leading to Saint Sophia.
‘Where are her guards?’ asked Jordi, curious as to why a woman of obvious wealth was walking around Constantinople alone.
‘They are certainly not guards,’ said an alarmed Luca, pointing at three more individuals joining the man he had seen in the church, all four dropping in behind her.
They followed the quartet as the wealthy woman sauntered along the paved street, the Mese, the main thoroughfare of the city, leading from the Church of Saint Sophia to the Forum of Constantine. In the centre of the square was a column originally crowned with a statue of the Emperor Constantine but was now topped with a cross. The four rough-looking men in drab clothing kept at a distance behind the woman but they were definitely trailing her, following her into the Forum of Theodosius a short walk from the first forum.
‘You have your knife?’ Luca asked Jordi.
Jordi nodded but then looked alarmed.
‘What if they are her bodyguards?’
‘What does your instincts tell you?’
‘That they are robbers,’ said Jordi.
‘Mine too.’
The woman, with not a care in the world and unaware she was being trailed by predators, ambled from the forum and walked on to pass the Church of the Holy Apostles, the burial place of the emperors of Constantinople and the patriarchs of the city. It had been ruthlessly plundered by the Latin crusaders a hundred years before but was still an impressive building, being cruciform in shape and surmounted by five domes.
Then the lady left the Mese to head north, towards the emperor’s palace, darting into a side street, which was a fatal error. The four shadowing her did likewise, quickening their steps to catch up with her when they realised she had entered a dreary side street that appeared deserted. She was obviously taking a shortcut but had played right into the robbers’ hands. They had caught up with her in seconds and surrounded her like a pack of wolves cornering a lone lamb.
Luca and Jordi exchanged no words as they sprinted at the robbers, two of whom had their backs to the pair
. Luca felt the same surge of energy and euphoria he had experienced on the beach, which heightened his instincts, made his body feel as light as air and the knife in his hand an integral part of his arm. He thrust the knife into the robber’s back, kept it in place and used the victim’s body as a shield, shoving it forward towards a second robber who was licking his lips, his eyes wide with relish at the prospect of robbing a rich woman. Perhaps he was thinking of raping her, probably killing her slowly. What he was not thinking about was being a victim himself. But that was what he became when the groaning bulk of his colleague was shoved into him and the silver blur of a knife inflicted a cut to his throat. Not a deep wound but enough to sever his windpipe. He instinctively clutched at his throat as Luca grabbed the woman and forced her behind him.
Everything around him slowed but he moved quickly, shielding the woman, ensuring Jordi, who had similarly stabbed one of the robbers and was tackling another, was safe. Jordi’s opponent had seen the pair and had stepped back, drawing his own knife in expectation of a fight. Luca whistled at him to divert his attention, which it did for a split-second. But that was all the time Jordi needed as he sprang at the man, grabbing his knife arm with one hand and plunging his own blade into his belly with the other, shouting in triumph as he stabbed at the man’s guts again and again.
He leapt back out of the range of the robber’s knife. But the man was bleeding heavily from the stomach and dropped his weapon, doubling over and coughing blood on to the paving stones.
‘Are you hurt, lady?’ asked Luca, two of the robbers writhing in agony on the ground, the other two already dead.
The saintly woman, stunned by the outbreak of violence that had disturbed her peace, was initially lost for words.
‘We must go, Luca,’ said Jordi, cleaning his bloody blade on the tunic of one of the dead robbers.
‘Where is your home, lady?’ asked Luca.
Still mute, the woman pointed in a northerly direction.
‘Then that is where we will go.’
Luca linked his arm in hers and urged her forward, away from the scene of carnage, Jordi walking behind to ensure no more miscreants appeared. Blood was oozing on to the street, and now doors were opening and eyes were peering out from opened shutters above them. And soon the screaming started. In the enclosed, claustrophobic street the shrill cries carried far, and soon a small crowd had appeared some way behind the two men with knives in their hands and a solitary woman. A woman in distress!