by David Capel
Just as we were settling down by our campfires to eat the evening meal, there was a ghostly howling sound that made the hairs on my neck stand on end, and elicited cries of alarm from the camp followers.
Into our midst wandered the figure of a man. I saw that he was dressed as a hermit, one of those monks who choose to live an ascetic life alone, preaching and relying on the charity of the country folk.
He came into the circle of firelight, moaning and shuddering as if with fear or cold. And then he started to denounce us, calling us sinners in the eyes of God, and predicting that the seven plagues were upon us once again. I do not know whether he was mad or deranged with hunger, but his kind are everywhere treated with respect, and in any other circumstances we would have heard him out. I saw the eyes of the peasants near to us regarding him with rapt horror and attention, as if he were some prophet plucked from the pages of the Old Testament.
Roundly he condemned us all, calling down vengeance from the Lord. What exactly were our sins I could not fathom until we heard a whinny from the horses in the church and the mendicant monk pointed at the building dramatically and damned us for defiling a house of God. The pagan Turks would be upon us, he said, and our souls would be condemned to the everlasting fire.
It was exaggerated nonsense, of course, but even so the man had presence, and his warnings about Hell rang out dramatically in the fire-lit darkness. But then there was a shadow behind him, and a thump, and the hermit fell, and there stood the Norman captain grinning broadly. He had knocked the preacher unconscious with the pommel of his sword.
“That’s enough for one night, Papa” he said in Greek, and then repeated the words in his own language. His men roared with laughter, and one of them rolled the monk near the fire, and for a moment I feared the worst. But in fact they simply intended to keep him warm, and in due course when the man awoke they fed him bread and cured meat, and chatted to him gaily as if he were a child. The monk said nothing more, but ate hungrily.
A couple of days after this incident we reached a fork in the road, where one branch continued east into Cappadocia, and the other turned south towards Cilicia and the mountain passes before Antioch. Here Bryennius turned us aside, and we left the Frankish knights and rode on alone.
η
I had not paid much attention to the whereabouts of the meeting place with Artabazes, Alexius Comnenus’ agent from Antioch. All I knew was that he was a serving officer in the garrison of the city, and so could not travel farther than a few days journey from the Syrian border. This was marked by a series of passes in the Taurus mountains called the Cilician Gates, the scene of many battles of old, including Alexander’s great victory over Darius. In more recent times the Romans had held the mountain passes successfully in defiance of the Arabs, and had retaken Antioch some years later. So we still held the Syrian capital, one of the great cities of the East and seat of one of the five patriarchs.
Bryennius told me that our meeting place was in the hills to the north of the Cilician plain, perhaps fifty miles from the Gates and a hundred from Antioch. I had considered simply continuing my journey to my estate along the road through Caesarea and Sebastea. I would have had the company of the Franks for a good part of the journey. The problem was that Alexius had given me specific instructions to accompany Bryennius to the meeting point, ostensibly to prolong the excuse for his journey, which was to escort me. Yet not once on our travels had anyone questioned our presence on the road. The situation in Asia was far too fluid for official quibbling about two officers travelling the roads on questionable business. In retrospect Alexius’ arrangements seemed rather odd, and I broached the idea of leaving him with Bryennius.
Slightly to my surprise he concurred, adding that I would reach my estate quicker if I stayed on the main road instead of diverting to Cilicia. But on further reflection I decided to stick with Alexius’ plan. I had no desire to disobey the general’s direct instruction. And I have to admit that Bryennius’ point had the opposite effect from its intention. I was in no rush to arrive at the estate. The unsettled nature of the country made me fear for the worst on that front.
For his part, Bryennius reverted to the taciturn mien he had adopted at the beginning of our journey. In my vanity I put this down to jealousy at the rapport I had established with the Franks. But I had the sense not to make this point. Instead, as before, I ignored him and we got along just fine.
We travelled for two days along the road to Germanicea, and the ground rose into hills clad with scented pine words and groves of olives. We were almost alone once more, and for a while it seemed as if we had escaped the confusion of war.
On the morning of the third day we branched off along what was little more than mule track. It wound its way through the trees, skirting along the edge of the hills with the plain of Cilicia visible to the South below. For the first time Bryennius opened up in conversation, remarking on the scenery around us, and asking me about my life back in the City. In actual fact he was repeating questions that he had asked before, but I humoured him, relieved that his ill temper had finally dissipated.
I asked him about our destination, and he told me that it was about thirty miles hence, so we should reach it towards the end of the next day. That evening we made camp in a pleasant glade on the edge of a wood, and Bryennius was almost in jovial form. He even rummaged in his saddle bag and pulled out a flask of arrack, which he said he had saved for the end of our journey. But this time it was my turn to be surly, for there was something slightly irritating in his manner, as if his good humour were contrived. I was nervous too, in this hidden country. It seemed peaceful, but something put me on edge, as if there were too few people and we were being watched.
So I only sipped at his bottle, though he drank plenty and urged me to do the same. When we turned in for the night I slept badly. Perhaps it was the arrack, or the cold breeze that sprang up at night in this hilly country. So it was that I heard my companion’s stealthy movements in the dead of night some three hours before dawn. There was a fine moon out, so I could see him from where I lay, and at first I drowsily assumed that he was relieving himself after his skinful of spirits.
But when I saw him pick up his sword I froze in terror. He stepped stealthily over towards me and stood there, a shadow against the dim moonlit sky. I dared not move, even though part of my mind was screaming danger at me. My heart pounded within me, and I was on the point of scrambling away when he turned. I saw him stoop and move his hand in the gloom, groping for something, and he picked up his cloak. As he stepped away from our campsite he must have kicked something for there was a faint scuttering noise and he turned again. I could tell by the shape of his head that he was regarding me once more. To my relief he did not approach me. Instead, treading softly, he disappeared from view down towards the path.
For a while I lay there in a funk of indecision. The craven part of me told me that what I did not see I could not be complicit in. He obviously did not want me to know he had left, so I should leave it at that. But the thought struck me that if he was up to no good, the consequences for me were unpredictable. He might simply be absconding, in which case I could presumably go my own way. Or else he might be planning to return, with what or whom I had no idea.
At any rate, it seemed to me that he intended me no immediate harm, or else he could have murdered me in my sleep. So I judged that it was safe enough to follow him.
So a few minutes later I stood and peered through the slowly lifting darkness. A silvery glow in the East told me that dawn was imminent, but with the waning moon it was impossible to make out any movement against the landscape. I decided to wait until it was lighter. I did not want to follow too close anyway, or else I would risk detection. And if Bryennius’ reckoning was accurate, the meeting pace was still many miles off, so I would have all day to track him.
To my puzzlement he had not taken his horse, and I heard the movement of the beasts in the trees to my left where we had tethered them. I picked my way gin
gerly down to the path. Ahead it wound its way into the pine woods, which made it easier to follow without being seen, although of course I could stumble across Bryennius if he dawdled or waited to see if I were following him. The thought made me tread carefully among the pine needles, with my hand on the pommel of my sword and the chorus of morning birdsong ringing around me.
After a mile or two the path plunged below the level of the pines and across a rocky scree of open hillside. I paused, scanning the ground ahead from the cover of the trees. There was Bryennius, perhaps half a mile ahead, striding purposefully along. I watched him for a few moments until he entered the woods again on the other side. I followed on.
I hurried across the open scree and into the woods the other side, perhaps a quarter hour after my quarry. Back in the trees, the path climbed steadily, until it reached a stream that had cut a rocky gulley across the hill and gurgled busily on its way down to the plain below. At this point there was a fork. A new, fainter, path climbed up steeply along the side of the stream, while the main route seemed to continue on the other side. Since we still had a long way to go, I assumed Bryennius would have gone straight on, so I scrambled down to the water and leapt across. Before long the path emerged into the open once more, and again I peered ahead for a sight of him.
But there was none. The path ahead continued to rise gently up the side of the hills, but the woods here failed, and I could see for several miles in front of me. The light was now good, and I stared for a long time, expecting to see the movement of a man emerging perhaps from a fold in the ground where the path twisted back and forth in its journey to the East. But there was no movement. I remembered the other path branching up the stream and I had to conclude that Bryennius had taken that route.
This might explain his decision not to take his horse, for it was a steep climb twisting among the boulders by the side of the stream. I soon found the place again and began the ascent. For about half an hour I clambered among the mossy rocks, with the trees hovering above and the humming of insects all around. At length the path crossed the narrowing stream, and went eastwards once more, parallel to the main path below which I glimpsed from time to time through the branches.
Then all at once it emerged into a clearing. There on the other side was a small church. It was a beautiful spot, this glade among the pine woods, with the humming of bees and the bright wild flowers. But for me the air was fraught with tension. The church was one of those that are common in the countryside – a place infrequently used except perhaps on the festival day of the saint after whom it was dedicated. Perhaps it had been the home of a hermit, or even one of the old wood nymphs of long ago.
As I gazed at the building in indecision I heard the mutter of voices, and it dawned on me: this must be the meeting place with Artabazes! We had reached it much earlier than I had been led to believe. Why, I wondered, had Bryennius deceived me in this way? I strained to pick out the conversation, but all I could make out was the measured tone of the discourse. There seemed to be two voices, and one was Bryennius’ for sure.
I crept towards the church, which was windowless except for some narrow apertures near the roof on the southern side. The door was on the western side, facing me, but it was ajar so that I could not see inside the building. The path here was overgrown with flowers and grass, and I guessed that the place had not been visited for some time. The voices got louder as I approached, and I heard Bryennius say something that sounded like
“… over there.”
There was silence for a moment or two, and then a sickening crunch followed by the thud of something falling.
I froze.
Then I heard something horrible, like a loud hiss followed by a whining, high pitched sigh that made my hair stand on end. I stood there in indecision, one foot poised in the air, half way through my stride. Then, before I could move, the door opened.
There stood Bryennius, carrying a bloody knife, and he started when he saw me.
“Lascaris! You’re here.”
“Yes. I followed when I saw that you had left early. What’s happened. Who’s in there?”
“He attacked me.” Bryennius was pale in the mid-morning sun. “Artabazes. The messenger. Or so he said he was. I don’t know, come to think about it.”
“Did he have anything on him? Let me see.”
I walked towards him and he started to say something, but I pushed past him and went into the little church. There in the gloom I saw the usual paraphernalia of such a place. The crudely painted iconostasis. The thin beeswax candles, cold in their iron candelabra. The dusty chairs and a table with a terracotta chalice. A rough wooden font.
All this I ignored. On the dusty floor of the church lay a man. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I noticed that his head was strangely distorted, and as I looked closer I nearly retched. The back of his skull was a flat, concave shape, as if something had taken a bite out of it. The floor around it was dark with blood. The neck was twisted, the face turned at a weird angle away from me. Something glistened in the half light, and I saw chips of bone, wet at the edge of the wound, like broken teeth around a wide, dark mouth. The dented cavity oozed with a yellowy grey liquid. Instinctively I stood away from the corpse, which I noticed then also had blood spreading from a gash in its chest. As I stepped backwards I bumped into something, and turned in fright to see that Bryennius had come in behind me. He said nothing, staring at me with his pale, shocked face, unblinking, like a spectre from the grave. I knew in that instant what he had done and what he had in mind. I could think of only one thing. I retched again, half doubling with the effort of it, and put my hand on his shoulder and started to push past. “Sorry... quick,” I mumbled, and he gave way instinctively in disgust, letting me through the door and into the open air. I stumbled past him and through into the daylight, heaving away and gurgling as best as I could. I staggered round the corner to the north side of the church, moaning and belching, my heart pounding with terror. I flattened myself against the wall, pulling at my sword, still groaning for all I was worth. Sure enough, he followed a moment later, and I just caught sight of his drawn sword, and the dagger, red with blood, and his surprised face when I struck. He was too close to stab or hack, so I thumped at him with the pommel of my sword. It was a glancing blow against the side of his head, and I grappled at him in panic, throwing my whole weight against him as best as I could. The thrill of fear flashed through my veins – I had missed my chance, and he knew it, and he was a soldier, steeped in blood and the experience of death. The fear gave me a frantic strength, and I was lucky, for he tripped as I pushed him back, and we both fell, and I shoved my elbow into his stomach even as I landed next to him. My first blow must have had some impact, for he was not as strong as I feared, and with a frenzy of desperation I flung myself on top of him and pounded away with my fists against his face. But still he struggled and he pushed me away, and again I knew that I was done for. But my foot felt the edge of the church wall, and using that as a lever I launched myself back at him. This time I saw the handle of my sword again, which unaccountably I had dropped and forgotten in the few split seconds of my ambush. I snatched it, and it nearly slipped from my grasp, but I grabbed it any old how and smashed the pommel once more against his head. This time my aim was true, and I caught him a resounding blow, first on the forehead, then again on the temple, and I banged away repeatedly, well after he was still. Then I lay there trembling, and I knew I should kill him with the point of my weapon, but I hadn’t the game for it, and for the first and only time in my fighting career I was sick. I vomited again and again next to him, and the terror took hold once more as I thought in my weakness he might awake. So I simply sat on top of him, trying to listen to his pulse and his breathing, and my mind was a storm of indecision about what to do next.
I tugged at his belt, and it was amazingly difficult to remove, but eventually I had it and I tried to fasten his hands, but the leather was too stiff to make an adequate knot. I thought again of killing him,
but the idea repulsed me, so I pulled off his cloak and tried to tear it into strips. Again, it was frustratingly difficult, even with my sword and his bloody dagger, but at last I fashioned myself some lengths of material, and bound his wrists as tightly as I could behind his body. In turning him over I noticed a parchment sticking out from his jerkin, and I pulled it out. Was this the missive carried by the Antiochene?
By God, I had completely forgotten about the other man! I hastened into the church again, and there it was, that sickening corpse, but I noticed that he was wearing a belt made of looped cord, so I took that and returned to Bryennius. I tied his ankles, and his wrists once more, then rummaged through his clothing, and searched the dead man also. Neither had anything of value bar a few coins, which I took, and then I heard a low moan, and I started in panic, and ran back to Bryennius, who was coming round.
I could think of nothing to do but just watch him as he shook his head from side to side, his hair dipping into my vomit, then he opened his eyes in shock, and then he retched himself. I held the point of my sword at his face.
“Why? Why did you do it?”
“Water! Give me some water,” he mumbled.
“Bryennius! Listen. You killed him. And tried to kill me. Why?” and then in a sudden fury at him and the predicament he had placed me in I shouted. “You bastard! You bastard killer! Why did you do this, why? Tell me, or I swear I’ll run this sword though you!”
This outburst at least brought his attention fully to me. He made no attempt to move, but regarded me coldly for a few moments, as if seeing me for the first time.
“You dog!” he said eventually, “Let me go, or I swear you will meet the same fate as that traitor within.”
“Traitor? It is you who has betrayed us. Me. Tell me why, or I’ll … I’ll kill you.”He thought about this for a second and then replied sneeringly.