by David Capel
“You? kill me? You don’t have the guts, you pathetic coward. You run away, and if you’re lucky you’ll escape me for the time being. But I warn you, you’re carrying your death warrant, and before you know it, Death will catch up with you. If not at my hands then at the hands of another. But release me now and you may yet live.”
And with that he tried to rise, but I pushed him back with my foot. Whether it was the renewed impact of his head against the ground, or else him fainting because of concussion, he fell unconscious once more. I looked down at him, still in a plague of indecision, and then simply ran.
It was a stupid and cowardly reaction, as I realised moments later. I should have killed him, or at least hit him again, or tied him more securely, or even perhaps released him. But these thoughts came to me only once I was on the other side of the clearing and back into the woods, and by then I was too frightened to go back in case he had already released himself and stood there waiting for me.
So I scrambled back along the path, and then down the gully to the stream, and panic sped me, so that I was lucky not to stumble and fall, which may well have been the end of the story.
Too late I berated myself as I fled back along the path through the woods. My behaviour had been illogical and foolish. Cowardly, even. Yet fighting with the intent to kill is a chancy business. It is bad enough to be taken by surprise when there is no time for fear, or else to fight in the ordered ranks of battle, when the presence of your comrades stiffens the will. But a premeditated attempt at – yes, I will call it this – murder, is the worst of all. All three circumstances involve a colossal shock to the system, with all the ingrained decency and morality of civilised life suspended, and rational thought is almost impossible, except perhaps for the hardened assassin.
So perhaps in truth I did not do too badly. At least I had had the gumption to turn the tables on my opponent.
But then – and this is something I pondered once I was some distance from the church – were my actions necessary? Had I read the situation correctly? What if I had simply taken Bryennius at his word and pretended to believe his claim about being the victim of assault? I could not know for sure. But at that moment I had no doubt about his general intentions as I raced back to the camp. If he caught me now I would be in trouble.
I tried to assess how long – at the least – he would lay prone there by the church. At best, I supposed, he would be trapped for good, or so injured that he would die there. But I discounted this possibility as wishful thinking. At the worst, I guessed, he would escape his bonds in a matter of minutes. I had tied them as fast as I could, but I was no expert gaoler.
And then? I guessed that he would be disorientated, and probably unable to pursue me at full pelt for a half hour or so. But I could not be certain. It seemed likely that I might have less than an hour’s lead on him.
One thing in my favour was that we had both left our horses tethered at the camp. When I reached the place they were still there, grazing happily under the trees. Hastily I flung a saddle over mine, and grabbed a few essentials from the campsite. I then attempted to ride on, back the way we had come, with Bryennius’ horse on a lead. But it was fiendishly difficult to make good progress. I had no rope of sufficient length, and his horse kept tossing and pulling back, and then barging into my own, which itself became frisky and hard to manage. I was in a sweat of fear again that Bryennius would overtake me, for I was going barely faster than a walk.
So in the end I decided to do to the horse what I could not to his master. But even this was surprisingly difficult. Killing a horse with a sword is no easy feat. I circled the beast, wondering at the best approach, and revolted at the task. At last fear and impatience made me strike, and I tried to stab the animal in the belly. He screamed and reared in pain and fright, lashing out and nearly catching me with his hooves. I fell back and the beast cantered down the track, and then slipped and fell, and scrambled down the hill away from the path, wounded but by no means dead.
My own animal was thoroughly frightened too, and I struggled to control it. I had no option but to ride away as fast as I could, sick with remorse and shame. All day I rode hard, cantering when it was safe to do so. I knew that Koloneia was many miles to the North and East, but I decided to forego the main road we had come by, for if Bryennius did recover he would be sure to follow me that way. So instead I took to the small tracks and paths of the country, aiming to pass Caesarea and Sebastea to the East, and thus avoid any pursuit.
θ
That night the horrors of what I had seen in the little church crowded in upon me. I could not shake off the uneasy feeling that I might have been followed, though logic told me that I would have detected a pursuer by now.
I lit a fire among some rocks and put it out almost immediately, terrified at the blaze of light. I tried to chew upon my meagre rations, but had no appetite. At length I just lay there, wrapped in my blanket, listening obsessively to every night noise, oblivious to the rough stones that bit into my side. Eventually I must have drifted off. Near dawn I woke in a panic at a strange snuffling and scratching sound that sounded for all the world like a man walking towards me. I sprang to my feet, reaching for my sword, and recognised the shifting sounds of my horse. For several moments I stared into the night, and then heard its hooves knock against the ground. It was the same noise, though softer and further off than I had imagined.
I squatted there as the blackness turned to purple and then grey, forcing myself to munch on some bread, and to think through my options. It was tempting to make straight for Trebizond and home, to escape from this nightmare landscape of murderers and barbarous raiders. But if I had survived a day and a night without pursuit, it must be that I was in no immediate personal danger.
I had to check on the condition of the Lascarid estate at Kastoria. With luck all would be well, and even if the place had suffered from the raids, I should be able to obtain succour there, and maybe take some men to escort me to safety.
But I still did not like carrying the two documents in my charge. If one was enough to provoke murder, a ‘death warrant’ as I had been told, what did the other contain? If anything, Nikephoritzes was more devious and up to his neck in dangerous plots than Comnenus.
I cudgelled my brains, trying to find an explanation for what had happened. Why had Bryennius killed the Antiochene in the first place? Why not simply take the letter and go? I suspected that his attack on me was unplanned. If I had not arrived on the scene he might have left me to go on my way. Perhaps he had intended to commit his crime and then return to me still slumbering at the camp site, with a story that the man had not been there, or that he had found the message left for him. Would I have doubted Bryennius and sought out the chapel on my own? Probably not. I would not have known how to find it. I would have wanted to believe him.
That brought me back to Alexius. Had he insisted that I accompany Bryennius all the way because he did not trust his own officer? Because he wanted another witness to the transaction with his Syrian agent? Quite possibly. I marvelled at his ludicrous pretence that this was all about gaining political intelligence about the state of affairs at Antioch. All was betrayal upon betrayal, and I was now caught up in the middle of the web.
I still had no idea why Bryennius would have turned murderer. No doubt he was at the heart of some devilish plot. But I was convinced that I was only attacked because of my foolish pursuit of him. I recalled how he had tried to suggest that I should leave him at the fork in the road and continue on with the Franks. I had been mad not to! Or had I? I now had knowledge, in the form of this document and as a witness to murder and betrayal. But if such knowledge has value, it also carries danger.
I took out the two letters. First I held up the one from Nikephoritzes and examined the seal. Should I open it and check its contents? There was no way I would be able to reseal it. Even if I found some wax, perhaps in a church along the way (I shuddered at the thought), it would be impossible to repair the ornate Imperial ciph
er.
This was my ticket back to the City. Deliver this at the port of Trebizond and I would be guaranteed passage home, by ship, the safest way. As far as I knew the Turks had not yet taken to the water. The document was probably a perfectly regular missive from one senior official to another. And if it did contain treasonable or secret information, then would I not be in greater danger if I was suspected of tampering with it? I decided to put the eunuch’s letter back again.
But the paper from Artabazus, the murdered Antiochene, was different. It obviously contained information that was important enough to inspire a killer. And though it was sealed crudely with candle wax there was nothing to prevent me opening it. Nonetheless I considered simply throwing it away. That would certainly put my mind at ease. But whatever it contained, it was obviously important. Important enough to kill for. It could be valuable to me, if only by delivering it safely to Alexius. It that case I could easily re-seal it.
I broke the yellow wax and opened the document. It consisted of two tightly written papers, and at the end of the second page was drawn a map, with directions. I read the text with growing amazement. Here is what it said:
To the General Alexius Comnenus, greetings. I hereby describe the information given lately to me that I gave you indication of.
It was a year ago, just after Christmas, when a cousin of mine, who had taken holy orders some years before, approached me in Antioch. He had fled to the city from his monastery in the Syrian hills. He told me a story that is now becoming common. They say that some of the heretic monasteries – Chaldean, Coptic, Syriac – are being left alone. But the Orthodox are persecuted by the heathen. Nonetheless his monastery, small and secluded as it was, escaped for many years from the passing enemy.
But at last a band of Arabs came and did not leave from the valley below. Day by day the monks’ movements became more surreptitious around them. Continually they would whisper about what might befall them. Some would say they had been menaced, others that they had been spoken to in a friendly manner. Over time the daily threat became more omnipresent in their thoughts.
Then one day a tall Arab came up to the gate and asked to see the ‘holy man’, as he called him. They fetched the Abbott and the two men talked for a long while in the refectory. Then the Arab rode away and the monks asked the Abbott what was the foreigner’s business. It transpired that the pagan soldier had asked to borrow money.
The Abbott then gathered the monks together and explained that he feared the Arabs would be back and that their demands would grow ever more burdensome. That their real desire was a venal one, and that their lust for money would not be satisfied, by that monastery at least. He warned the monks to expect a time of trial, and asked them to prepare themselves for tribulation.
At that time many of the monks fled, and the next day the Abbott took my cousin to one side and showed him marvellous treasures that he had not seen before, for they had been hidden. He asked my cousin to take them and hide them in a nearby castle that had been built by the great Emperor, John Tzimisces, during his campaigns in Syria.
“For it may be,” said the Abbott, “that all will be well, and the Arabs will leave us in peace in due course, or that the might of Rome will return. In that case we will flourish once more and we will be able to offer protection to these holy relics again.”
“But until then, let us hope that the spirit of Tzimisces will guard them awhile in our stead. For these treasures were taken by him, rescued from the monasteries of the Holy Land during his raid on Jerusalem.”
Then my cousin took them as directed one night, but as he was only a short distance away he saw the flames leap up behind him, and the cries of his brethren, and he knew that the end was come. The Arabs ransacked the monastery and burnt it, slaying the Abbott and many monks, as my cousin later discovered from one who escaped.
Daring not to carry his burden all the way here to Antioch, he concealed the treasures as he had been told in the crypt of the castle chapel just a few miles to the north of the monastery. The place is called Sayan and lies ruined in a forest where none but the beasts of the wood come.
But it is by his account not far from a small village of woodcutters and husbandmen called Haffe. At my urging he drew me a map showing where the place lies. I considered retrieving the artefacts myself (neither I nor he know what exactly they are), but decided that I could think of no better hiding place than their current location.
So I send this to you direct. You will have the capability that I lack to take these things securely and put them to best use in the service of the Empire and Ecumene.”
Below this account was a description of how to reach the castle from the village called Haffe, which appeared to be a mile or two to the north-west, accompanied by the sketch of the castle set in a forested valley.
I marvelled at the document and at Alexius’ ludicrous claim that this was all about gaining political intelligence as to the state of affairs in Antioch. The errand that I had been sent on was nothing more or less than a treasure hunt! Had he known? Most likely he had. Money was everything to those who sought power. But it was nothing to me, hundreds of miles in the wrong direction, in the midst of hostile territory. It would need a troop of cavalry, at the least, to find and investigate this place, Sayan. Something that Alexius might be able to organise, but not I.
Nonetheless it struck me that the document I held was valuable in itself, particularly now that its original bearer was dead. Did anyone else know of this treasure? The monk who had hidden it clearly wanted to pass all responsibility from him, now that his Abbott was dead and his monastery destroyed. Bryennius, if he was still alive, had not had a chance to look at the letter.
In that case, for all practical purposes, I was the only one who knew of the cache. I might not be able to find it myself, but I might devise some way of selling the message to Alexius, or someone else. The likes of Nikephoritzes would no doubt be intrigued by its strange contents, and the thought both excited and alarmed me.
Whatever the future uses of the information it contained, I had no desire to be found with this bloody document about my person. At any stage on this perilous journey I could be stopped, either by Roman officials or Turkish raiders such as Erkan. Whatever the contents of Nikephoritzes’ letter, I could claim ignorance of it. But with this one, possession meant trouble.
It was then that I hit upon my idea. I read the words again in the growing light, and traced the design with a stick in the dust, as carefully as I could. I decided to learn the text and the image off by heart. So I saddled my horse and set off on my way, holding the letter alongside the reins, and repeating the words again and again until I had memorised them.
When I stopped I would draw the map in the dust, wiping it clear and starting once more until that, too, was lodged in my memory. In this way I hid in the information in the most secure hiding place possible – my own imagination.
It has to be said that the process of memorising the document restored my composure somewhat. The mental exercise distracted me from my recent tribulations, and I pondered instead the meaning of the document and how I might use it to my advantage.
My state of mind was helped by the fact that the country around here for some reason appeared calmer than it had further west. I entered the valley of the Halys, and here the villages seemed untouched by the trouble elsewhere, and there was regular traffic on the roads. At first I flinched and hid at the first sign of fellow travellers, but after watching first a black robed priest on his donkey from the safety of the rocks, and then a barefoot peasant carrying two dead chickens round his shoulders, I decided that I could risk being observed. Perhaps the presence of the great garrison at Sebastea, some leagues to the West, kept the valley free of the Turk.
For the first time in ten days I rested that night at an inn, which gave me fleas, but this was a small price to pay for the hot stew and sense of relative security that I enjoyed there. I still had plenty of coin left over. I hid that in one boot and
the Antioch document (or so I now called it to myself) in the other.
The latter I had considered throwing away on approaching the inn. But after enjoying a cup or two of rough wine I was thankful that I had not, so quickly did my memory of the text seem to vanish from my head.
The next morning I took clear directions of the way to Koloneia from the Armenian innkeeper and set out once again. The journey across the Halys valley and into the hills beyond was almost pleasant in the midsummer warmth. I would stop in the heat of the day and rest by a brook or under a tree, testing my memory. I applied a trick that I had learnt during my studies in Constantinople. If I turned my thoughts to other matters, then came back to the Antioch document at increasing intervals, it seemed to lodge ever more firmly in my mind.
By this time I was performing the exercise more as a pastime to keep me amused on the long journey. It was harvest time here in Asia Minor, and the fields of wheat and olive groves were full of men and boys bringing in the fruits of their labour.
The chaos and dislocation of the Anatolian plateau behind me seemed like a distant nightmare, and I began to conclude that my experiences had been in isolation. Maybe the Roman offensive really had restored security to Asia. For all I knew the Turks were being driven out of the very regions that I had traversed.
Although I had only visited the place once as a child, I knew that the Kastoria estate was strung out on the south bank of the river Lycus some miles to the West of Koloneia, and that the road from Sebastea passed its gates. So all I had to do was to intercept the highway from the South and then followed it east. After some trouble cutting across country I found the road as it rose from the Halys, and followed it confidently through the next pass into the narrow valley of my family home beyond.
It was dusk as I breasted the rise, so I huddled down and spent the night among some rocks just below the watershed, risking a fire and congratulating myself that on the next night I would be comfortably in my own house, with servants and a factor to look after me. And it was with these cheering thoughts that I woke the next morning and began the descent to the Lycus.