by Peter Darman
‘The spoils of war. I assume you will now rape her until she begs for mercy.’
Luca was shocked. ‘No, not at all, I would never.’
‘Then what are you going to do with her?’
‘She will have to be fed out of your rations,’ said Sancho coolly. ‘What is she babbling?’
Luca lifted the woman up and pulled his sword from its sheath. She squealed and dropped to her knees, obviously begging him not to kill her.
‘Ha, she thinks you are going to kill her,’ laughed Hector.
Luca slipped the sword back in its sheath and tried to calm the woman. Sancho groaned and stormed off, washing his hands of the affair. As he departed, however, the officer on horseback returned, pointing at the woman Luca had just purchased.
‘She was saying “save me, master”,’ he told Luca, ‘which you appear to have done.’
‘Can you ask her what her name is, sir?’ requested Luca.
The man spoke to the woman, who was now more composed, having worked out she was not going to be killed, at least not immediately.
‘Her name is Ayna,’ the officer informed him.
‘One more thing, sir,’ said Luca, ‘can you tell her I am going to draw my sword to cut the cord around her wrist.’
The officer did so. Ayna held out her arms, Luca unsheathed his sword and cut the cord.
The officer pointed to beyond the wall.
‘If I could offer some advice, young warrior. Her people are just a short distance away and you have a pouch full of money. If I were you, I would watch her closely, lest she slits your throat and takes herself off with your money.’
‘Sound advice,’ agreed Hector.
But Luca would have none of it and Ayna showed nothing but gratitude for having been saved from being shipped to Constantinople, even if she was a still a slave in Artake. But life as a slave did not initially appear that onerous. The Almogavar women and children lived in and around the city of Artake, their lodgings provided for free by a grateful Count Michael and the city authorities, who knew the Catalan Company would soon be leaving the peninsula to wage war against the Muslims. Until that day arrived, Luca and the others swapped their tents for stone billets. He had been given a small crofter’s hovel in the hills above Artake, a simple one-room stone building with a dilapidated tile roof.
As the days grew warmer life became more idyllic. Luca spent his days tramping through the hills of the peninsula, practising weapon drills and Almogavar tactics, and enjoying the hospitality of a grateful population. Ayna was left to her own devices during the day, and Luca fully expected her to abscond at the first opportunity. But she did not, instead attending to their hovel to make it more liveable. They both fixed the roof and cleared the brambles from around the building, Jordi, who much to his disgust was lodged with his parents in Artake itself, lending a hand whenever he could. Because Sancho Rey was the head of the Almogavar council, he and his family were given a large house fronting the harbour to live in.
Luca and Jordi were a rarity among the Almogavars as they alone had money to spend, the wages of the Almogavars being used up at an alarming rate to purchase food and supplies so as not to alienate the citizens of Artake. Grand Duke Roger, resident in a mansion in the city with his young wife, eagerly waited for the profits of the sale of the slaves that had been shipped to Constantinople. His concern turned into alarm when fifteen hundred Almogavar horsemen and a thousand Alan riders rode into the Artake Peninsula.
Corberan’s horsemen only had a small pool of remounts, having been supplied with horseflesh by a parsimonious royal treasury in Constantinople, but each Alan horseman had up to five remounts to ensure he was always riding a fresh horse. Led by a tall, slender individual named Arabates, the Alans wore a variety of different coloured felt robes over their long-sleeved linen shirts. Their baggy leggings, leather boots and tall, broad-brimmed hats gave them an exotic appearance, that and their unruly behaviour. Their main armament was a composite bow, identical to the bows used hundreds of years before by the horsemen of the steppes. Each rider also carried a sabre and some were equipped with a spear and small round shield. The arrival of the horsemen placed an intolerable strain on the finances of the Catalan Company, resulting in a flurry of letters from Grand Duke Roger to the imperial court.
*****
Co-Emperor Michael descended the steps leading to the marble quay decorated with lions, Varangian Guards standing like statues at regular intervals, immaculate in burnished helmets and scarlet cloaks. At the bottom of the steps stood the portly figure of Treasurer Timothy, who bowed his head at the emperor’s son. Moored to wooden posts topped with gold leaf was the royal barge, its oarsmen ready at their stations and the captain standing beside the gangplank. Since the attempt on Princess Maria’s life, Michael had taken to using the barge if he ventured out of the Blachernae Palace into the city. Besides, being rowed to Saint Sophia or other destinations was far more preferable to enduring the close proximity of the common folk, even if they pressed round his entourage to cheer and wave. They also held up their infants to him, which he found abhorrent, the babies invariably bawling their heads off and emitting ear-splitting wails. No, travel by imperial barge was far more enjoyable.
‘A fine day, lord treasurer,’ he said to Timothy, stepping on the gangplank. ‘Will you join me on the voyage to Saint Sophia’s?’
Timothy followed Michael on to the vessel and into the coach at the rear of the barge, treading on a soft red carpet inlaid with yellow crosses and the royal cypher. The eighteen rowers, all attired in red and gold imperial livery, stood to attention as the pair entered the coach and seated themselves on plush couches, slaves waiting to serve them refreshments. Varangians stepped on to the barge and took up position at the entrance to the coach.
The captain, a rosy cheeked individual with a thick beard, removed his hat and bowed his head.
‘All is ready, highness.’
Michael took the silver cup on the tray offered to him by a slave, another filling it with wine. He nodded at the captain who walked to the rear of the coach, exited the door, closed it and took up position at the stern of the vessel, which was raised to give him a clear view of the bow of the vessel and the route the barge would be taking. He barked an order and the oarsmen took up position, two of the crew using long poles to push the barge away from the quay.
Michael took a sip of wine. ‘The sale of the slaves has been completed?’
Timothy took a large gulp of wine. ‘Yes, highness. I will send the profits to Grand Duke Roger immediately.’
‘You will do no such thing,’ said Michael tartly. ‘All monies raised will be channelled to the emperor’s army across the Bosporus, which faces the massed ranks of Osman Bey’s army.’
Timothy drank more wine. ‘Grand Duke Roger might take offence, highness, seeing it was his soldiers that captured the slaves.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand at him.
‘Grand Duke Roger is a mercenary, apostate and low-ranking son of a German. My father, in his naïve innocence, saw fit to give him a high rank. But the Catalan Company has been hired to liberate the cities of Philadelphia and Magnesia and the town of Tire. Once it begins its campaign, it will be able to live off the land to provide it with supplies.’
‘Forgive me, highness, but if the Catalan Company liberates the aforementioned cities and surrounding areas, but then plunders them, will it not impoverish the local populations beyond repair, thus making them more disposed to Muslim rule?’
Michael froze him with a hateful stare, causing the eunuch to squirm with discomfort.
‘I am not here to elicit your views on the grand strategy of the empire. You will do as instructed. The slaves were taken on imperial territory and the imperial army will benefit.’
Timothy’s double chin wobbled with trepidation. He had no desire to be thrown from the barge, which was now being rowed down the Golden Horn, especially as he could not swim.
‘Yes, highness.’
Having sailed to Artake, four thousand Almogavars stood ready to take ship back to Constantinople to save the city from a grave threat. Osman Bey was leading a huge army against the city and the emperor needed all the soldiers he could muster to save a thousand years of civilisation. Corberan of Navarre and the Alan commander Arabates rode north back to Constantinople with all haste to join with the forces of General George Mouzalon to give battle to the Turks on the eastern side of the Bosporus.
Each day Luca and the other Almogavars reported to the harbour where Grand Duke Roger’s ships waited to ship them to Constantinople, and each day he returned to his home in the hills overlooking the city of Artake with Ayna in tow. Much to his frustration, nothing happened. Via Jordi he heard that Grand Duke Roger and his father received conflicting reports from Constantinople. Osman Bey had retreated. Osman Bey had never been leading an army towards Constantinople. Osman Bey was advancing south, intent on dealing with the Almogavars himself, which prompted the Catalan Company deploying to the wall once more. Osman Bey had fallen from his horse, had broken his leg and had died of an infection caused by the injury. A week, two weeks, a month passed and only one thing became certain: Osman Bey, wherever he was, was not marching on Constantinople, or indeed marching anywhere.
Summer came and went and the horsemen did not return. The emperor’s general, having received twenty-five hundred mounted reinforcements, was eager for them to remain, and in truth Grand Duke Roger did not press for their return as autumn arrived. He knew that the campaigning season was drawing to a close and had no wish to billet hundreds of horsemen and thousands of horses on the peninsula, where they would have to be fed and housed.
And then the rains arrived.
Ordinarily, the weather in Anatolia in autumn is pleasant, with mild temperatures and bright spells. Of course, the days became shorter and the land could be subjected to cloud bursts, but Luca’s first autumn in the Roman Empire was extremely wet. Most days were overcast with a constant drizzle that found a way of infiltrating his cloak and clothing and soaking his woollen hat. On the daily route marches and weapons practise this was bearable enough, but he and the other Almogavars were forced to carry out the bane of soldiers everywhere: sentry duty.
The wind blew the rain in his face as he and Jordi walked up and down a section of the ruined wall they had defended in what seemed like a lifetime ago. Sharpened wooden stakes had been placed in the gaps in the wall to deter enemy horsemen infiltrating the stone ruins. Not that any enemy had shown their faces. The isthmus was slowly becoming waterlogged as the heavens opened on a daily basis, great pools of water forming on both sides of the wall, around them the dry earth turning into a glutinous mud that impeded all movement. The Almogavars responded by installing a labyrinth-like system of wooden walk boards behind the wall.
‘My father wants me to marry,’ said a disconsolate Jordi.
‘Who to?’ asked Luca, glancing at the mainland-side of the wall as they paced side-by-side along the dilapidated walkway.
‘The Count of Opsikion’s daughter,’ he said.
‘I did not know you had met her.’
Jordi shook his head. ‘I haven’t. She lives in Constantinople, in a great house the count has in the city. I do not wish to marry someone I have never set eyes on.’
It was dull and rainy, which suited Jordi’s mood perfectly. Luca tried to cheer up his friend.
‘Perhaps she does not want to marry you.’
‘I pointed that out to my father, who told me the desires of those betrothed to each other is of secondary importance.’
‘To what?’
‘A marriage that will tie the Catalan Company more closely to the Roman Empire,’ sighed Jordi. ‘My father believes that we must look to put down roots in this region. He sees no future in being mercenaries forever.’
The rain increased in intensity, lashing the wall and the Almogavars patrolling it. The sea either side of the isthmus had become a brooding expanse of dark grey, the mainland shrouded in low cloud.
‘At least you have Ayna to warm your bed,’ said Jordi matter-of-factly.
Luca blushed but Jordi, his head down, did not see his friend’s embarrassment. In the days after he had purchased Ayna, Hector had been bending his ear about the importance of putting slaves in their place, which meant raping female slaves to make them more ‘pliant’. He did nothing of the sort, and the initial jubilation he had experienced when he had bought Ayna quickly gave way to embarrassment and shame. Shame that he had purchased another human being. This made him go out of his way to make her feel as comfortable as possible, in so far as it was possible bearing in mind she had become a human chattel.
At first, she slept on the floor at the bottom of his bed. Not that he slept much at all during the first few days of their stay in the crofter’s hut, not least because when it rained the leaky roof meant they both got wet. But the disrepair proved something of a blessing because it meant they could both focus on something else rather than their enforced proximity. And to his relief, Ayna quickly realised she was not going to be raped or abused by her new master, who was of a similar age.
Luca came to appreciate two things about Ayna: her beauty and her intelligence. The former had been apparent on the day he had first encountered her, but her sharp mind manifested itself soon after. Realising that language between the two would be a problem, Luca was delighted to discover that she was a quick learner when it came to picking up Italian, which was just as well because he was both illiterate and only understood the rudiments of Spanish, despite living among Catalans. His understanding of Turkish was non-existent. But Ayna was soon conversing with him in pigeon Italian, facilitated by the visits of Carla, who was concerned for Luca’s welfare, as well as his Muslim ‘guest’. She disapproved of slavery, even for Saracens as she quaintly called all non-Christians, but was pleased to discover that Ayna was not being physically abused.
Carla was amiable and friendly, in sharp contrast to her husband, which is one reason they got on so well, and she and Ayna struck up a kind of friendship, spending much time together in between the chores that dominated women’s lives. This resulted in Ayna becoming familiar with Catalan as well as Italian, her enquiring mind absorbing knowledge like a sponge. As the autumn faded, she was able to converse with Luca more fully, which they both found agreeable. But it was not Ayna’s language ability that was uppermost in Luca’s mind. He requested an urgent meeting with the Almogavar Council to discuss the weather.
‘The weather?’
Angel gave him a bemused look as he poured himself more wine. After the heroics at the wall, the mayor of Artake had given the Almogavar Council its own room in the grandiose city hall in which to hold meetings. The count, city authorities and population in general looked upon the Catalans favourably, not least because they were punctilious when it came to paying for food and supplies, notwithstanding the money from the purchase of the slaves had yet to arrive.
‘It is going to be a very harsh winter, lord.’
‘We are not your lords, Black Sheep,’ said Marc, helping himself to a cake from the pastries piled high on the plate on the table he and the others sat round.
‘Sir will do,’ said Sancho sternly. ‘And sit down, for pity’s sake. You look like a hangman about to escort one of us to the scaffold.’
Luca smiled and pulled up a chair. Hector poured him some wine.
‘Well, tell us about the coming winter.’
‘I was a shepherd for many years,’ began Luca, ‘and I was taught to look for the signs that nature revealed so we could prepare. Now we should prepare.’
‘For what?’ asked a sceptical Marc.
Luca sipped at the wine. ‘The geese and ducks have all left the land early to fly to warmer places. There is thick hair on the nape of the cows’ necks, there were heavy fogs in the summer, and mice have been flocking into my home.’
‘You should get your slave to kill them,’ suggested Angel. ‘How
is she, by the way? Accommodating, I trust?’
Luca felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, made worse when the others guffawed.
‘She is well, thank you.’
‘The mice were not alone,’ continued Luca. ‘We are loused out with spiders whose webs are larger than usual. Pigs are gathering sticks, bees are seeking sanctuary in their hives to prepare for the coming test, and squirrels are gathering nuts early as they too prepare. And I have seen frequent rings around the moon.
‘Any one of these things would be a warning, but to see them all is an omen of an approaching great freeze.’
‘What do you want us to do about it?’ asked Sancho.
‘Get the priests to say more prayers?’ offered Marc.
‘God helps those who help themselves,’ said Hector.
‘Grand Duke Roger should be told, sir,’ Luca told Sancho, ‘so his ships can be used to fetch more food. And Count Opsikion should also be warned so his people can prepare.’
‘That is very presumptuous of you,’ growled Sancho. ‘I am sure the count has his own weather forecasters to warn him of approaching calamities.’
‘You mean witches?’ smiled Hector. ‘We burn them.’
Marc raised a finger. ‘Perhaps if we burnt a few witches, God would save us from a harsh winter.’
‘I do not approve of the burning of young women,’ said Angel solemnly.
‘Only old and ugly ones,’ retorted Hector, prompting belly laughs.
Luca was not laughing. ‘As God is my judge, sirs, this is no laughing matter.’
Sancho pointed at him. ‘Very well, Black Sheep, we will take your impudent advice, though on your head be it if your prophecy of doom fails to materialise.’
Winter arrived but there was nothing untoward about the temperature. The days became shorter, darker and people could see their breath when they exhaled. But it was no different from the previous winters as far as anyone in Artake could remember. Deprived of their horsemen, the Almogavars continued to train, patrol the wall and watch for any signs of an enemy that had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. And still no money came from Constantinople.