by David Capel
“Romali, Romali.”
“Yes, but where are they? All dead? All dead?” and I put my finger across my throat and shrugged my shoulders.
The second one cackled. “Evet, Romali,” or some such, and gabbled at me for a few moments, jabbing at her neck in cutthroat style.
“All gone?” I asked in consternation, and turned away from them, ready to mount my horse again.
But just as I was about to heave myself onto my weary beast once more, the first one grabbed me by the arms and started to jabber in her loathsome tongue.
At first there was nothing but a stream of gobbledegook, but when I made to launch myself aboard once more she spoke with growing urgency, nodding her head like a puppet.
“Romali, Romali, evet,” and then started pointing into the hills, jabbing her finger.
Then the other one joined in, but in a more hostile tone, and started pulling at the robes of her friend. But I interrupted her.
“Romans. Romali? Up there?
The first gabbled on, and pointing to where there seemed to be a low wooded hill jutting out from the range beyond.
“Kilise, kilise,” she seemed to be saying, and then I suddenly understood the bastardisation of the Greek word ‘Church’.
I thanked them, smiling through my beard, but my woman clutched at my knee still, repeating another word with her toothless, wrinkled mouth whining at me, “effendi, effendi.” For a moment I was at a loss, and then I realised, and reached inside my coat for some coins of little worth.
Before long I was climbing through some sweet smelling pine woods up the hill the Turkish woman had indicated. It was a little cooler here, above the musty heat of the valley floor, and there through the trees I saw the bell tower of a church in the cleft of a ravine high above. It was peaceful here above farmland below, and I surmised that this would have been some holy place of the ancients, the imagined home of a wood-god. Sacred to the pagans, they might have built some rustic temple here, supplanted in later years by a Christian church.
The church did not look all that old, so maybe this had been some last redoubt of the old religion, hiding here as a memory of the rites of Dionysus. Just as the Christians now hid here as the new prophet took hold of their old lands below.
For as I approached I noticed the many signs of temporary habitation in the woods around me. There were shacks built among the trees, and the rubbish of the camp, not dissimilar from the unsettled messiness of the farm land below. I glimpsed frightened faces in the trees around me, but did not see anyone fully until I reached the open space before the church. There stood the priest, clearly forewarned and awaiting my arrival, black robed and formal, with his black cylindrical hat. At first glance he looked not unlike the two women I had encountered below.
“Hail, father,” I cried, “I am a Roman, a native of these parts come home. I come to seek shelter in these troubled times.”
“And what do you bring with you?”
“Why, nothing. I am alone.” I dismounted and walked towards him.
“And we have nothing also.” It was not the most friendly of greetings, but seeing me crestfallen he relented and said,
“Come, stranger. Tether your horse and come and refresh yourself. You look weary. I hope you have not brought the Turk on your tail, but at least you may have some news for us.”
“Certainly I do, and I seek news also. For I am no stranger to these parts. My name is John Lascaris, and I was travelling home to Kastoria. But my house the other side of the river yonder has been taken by vagabonds and I would know the story of that.”
He looked at me from under his bushy brows. “That is indeed the story of all of us here, and it is easy to tell, but not so welcome to hear. Come.”
He led me round to the side of the church, where the stream gurgled its way down the rocks. Here the cliffs on the side of the gorge rose steep on the other side of the water, and I saw that they were pitted with the dark openings of caves. Some had bright cloths hanging outside, and to my surprise I saw a woman emerge from one and go down to the stream to fetch water. There was a little wooden bridge behind the church which led over to these troglodyte dwellings.
“You can see that we are reduced to living in caves, as animals or hermits,” said the priest, and he led the way over the wooden walkway to an opening in the rock.
“Here indeed lived once such ascetic, Georgikos, and now it is my home.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“You are right! I have lost my manners in these dark times. It is Father Adrianos. And I apologise for my earlier wariness. Let me make amends by finding you food and drink.”
He pushed aside a light curtain that masked the entrance and showed me inside. The cave was cramped and small, and smelt of damp. Yet the walls were covered in crude frescos, and wooden shelves and a wooden cot had been fitted into recesses further back. At the entrance was a low table and a chair. A bench was carved into the soft limestone of the wall.
At that moment two men, dressed in the rustic garb of the area, came up asking for the priest, and they looked at me suspiciously. He bade me to sit down and led them away, muttering soothingly to them. After a few minutes he returned, carrying a small jug of wine.
“They are worried about you.”
“Did you explain who I was?”
“Yes, but they think that you will bring attention to us. Did you see anyone or talk to anyone on your approach?”
I admitted that I had, and told him about the two women.
“Hmm, that is not ideal. The local Turks already know that we are here, of course. As long as we do not disturb them they tend to leave us be. But in the past if we have shown anything else than complete docility, there has been trouble. These women are sure to speak about you to their men folk, and then who knows? A big, armed solider like you, of dangerous appearance? Clearly a Roman soldier of experience? The chances are that men will come to find you and ask questions about you.”
I did not smile at the description, which would have amazed some of my friends in the City, or indeed myself only two months ago. Instead I stammered an apology.
“Do not worry. You were not to know the situation we find ourselves in. But I’m afraid that we cannot shelter you here. You must move on.”
“I will, immediately. I had no idea. But if the Turks find no-one here you can simply say that I passed through, that you sent me on my way.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I will say something like that.”
“And then they will leave you in peace?”
“I hope so. But one cannot be sure. Already some of the people will leave on hearing of your presence. They will fear the worst.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It is not your fault. And besides, many are leaving anyway, for the Pontus coast and Trebizond, or else to the West. In truth there is not enough space here for all the people who have fled here. It is pretty enough now on the hillside, but in winter we will go hungry.”
I stood to leave, but he put his hand on my arm and bade me sit again. “There is no rush! At least we have time to feed you before your journey. You must be tired and distressed. You are a Lascaris from Kastoria across the Lycus? Yes, I saw your father on one or two occasions some years ago. I can imagine what it must have been like to arrive at your home to find these robbers in residence.”
A woman appeared with a tray of victuals, bread, olives and cheese. I ate hungrily while I told Adrianos my story, from the first news of trouble in Constantinople to my arrival at the burnt estate. When I mentioned the gruesome fruit hanging from the tree, the priest nodded sadly.
“Yes, that would have been Bouzanis and his family. He refused to leave when the Turks came, and over the winter he and his family stayed in their house, keeping up the pretence that all was well. I think he tried to integrate the newcomers, so to speak, as if they were simply new tenants moved onto the farm. And for a while they humoured him. But he must have overstepped the mark somehow and they t
urned on him. We know this much from an Armenian who travels the country hereabouts selling metal ware. He was there when a crowd of the Turks set upon Bouzanis’ household and lynched the three of them. The merchant had to complete his business with the factor, his wife and child dangling from the branch there like Judas. I don’t think he will be returning to this country.”
We sat there in silence for a moment before I asked him how the Turks had arrived in the first place.
“It was late summer last year that they came. Less than a year ago! There had been raids before, of course. Most of the last five years we have seen the horsemen with their bows, and fire, and curved swords. But last year they came like locusts. First the armed men, more than ever this time, burning and wrecking and turning people out of their houses. Killing priests or anyone who tried to stop them.”
“What about the army? Was there fighting?”
“Bah, the army!” The priest flapped his hand contemptuously. “The so-called Roman army did nothing to stop them. We used to see the odd patrol, usually long after the raiders had left. But last year they were nowhere to be seen. They just sit there in their castle at Koloneia as if all was well.”
“Sit there?” I said, astonished. “You mean there is still a garrison in Koloneia?”
“Yes! The Imperial flag still flies above the Black Castle! And as far as I know the town is still in Roman hands, notionally at least. It too is swollen with refugees from the country, and disease and huger stalk its streets. Do not go there! You will find no help there. The soldiers there are as meek as lambs. In fact I should think that is the only reason they have not been ejected by the Turks. But it will be their turn before long.”
I shook my head in despair and amazement as Adrianos continued his tale. The big raids of the summer had heralded a new development: wagons with families and livestock had arrived and just settled among the fields and villages, occupying deserted houses and setting up encampments where they would. There had been remarkably little violence after the initial raids. The newcomers had simply arrived in increasing numbers, taking over vacant land, and living cheek by jowl with the remaining natives. The latter had gradually left, as much from alienation as from coercion, though any protests were inevitably met with violence. After less than a year, this stretch of the Lycus valley had seen it population almost entirely replaced.
No landowner had attempted to halt the process. Most of them lived far away in the City, or in other centres such as Trebizond or Sebastea. One or two factors like Bouzanis had tried to impose order on the immigrants, and even to collect rents, but they had been ignored, and if persistent, killed.
“And that, my friend, is how things stand. We have seen nothing like it since the Arab raids many years ago. And even then they say that the enemy did not overwinter like these barbarians. The Turks are like a plague! God in heaven knows how we will be rid of them. But that is where you may bring us hope. Tell me what moves elsewhere. Will the Emperor come and drive the foe away?”
“I do not know. That is certainly his intention. But in honesty I cannot imagine how this influx can be undone. A whole new people has come to live among us! Short of massacring every woman and child, how can they be removed? Will the people come back? Something like this happened in Illyria and the Balkan lands when the Slavs came long ago. And though the Romans regained those provinces, the people were lost forever. Even in Hellas they say that Greek is an unknown tongue in many parts still. But I fear the worst here in Asia.”
“Well, it is up to you soldiers now. All this last year we have beseeched the good Lord to redeem us, to no avail. I can see no great sinfulness among us, out of the ordinary. But nonetheless we are punished. So if prayer has no effect on its own, the force of war must suffice. It was ever thus in the Ecumene. You must become not just a solider, but a soldier of Christ, my son. Otherwise this will become a heathen land populated by a heathen people.”
“I will do my best,” I said.
And I meant it. As I rode away from that steep sided valley amidst the pines, my resolve had hardened. More families were gathering together the meagre belongings they had saved from their houses for flight. And I overtook yet others on the road to Trebizond over the hills into the coastlands of Pontus that were still untouched by the enemy. For now it was not just a question of self interest, of restoring my fortunes as best I could. Nor was it of my loyalty to the Empire, though I suppose that even the most feckless young men have emotional ties to their fatherland.
Now my personal mission had become enmeshed within a wider story, in a way that I could never have imagined just a year ago. Then my ambitions had been essentially selfish, or at least pragmatic. The nature of security is that the individual can afford to be very atomised in his vision; it is enough to look after his own interests, or those of his immediate circle, without jeopardising the welfare of the community. That is one of the gifts of civilization to its citizens, just as it is a gift of the parent to his child.
But now I felt responsibility, not just for my family’s interests, but for those who had been forced from the land at Kastoria, and, in a way, throughout Asia. I was filled with remorse for those who fled the little church where Father Adrianos held sway, fearful that I would bring the raiders on my heels. I swore to avenge them, and myself. But it was a broader feeling even than that – a sense that it was incumbent on me to strive to help the wider Ecumene, to save the Empire from the likes of Erkan and his verminious compatriots.
This may sound pompous. Perhaps in my youth the flames of my rage were fanned by an exaggerated sense of honour and an inflated sense of self worth. But in honesty I still had no great faith in my own capabilities. I just felt that I had to do my best, however feeble my contribution.
In this frame of mind I rode the short journey over the hills to the Pontic Sea and then turned east along the coast to the port city of Trebizond.
κ
Two days later I approached the land walls of the city of Trebizond. I had been amazed by the difference in fortunes between this country and the valley of the Lycos, and before that the Halys and Cappadocia.
The first sign of this change was a small fort that guarded the pass as it descended into the vine-laden valley that opened out into the littoral below. Here I had been accosted by Roman soldiers of the Chaldian Theme, who issued forth on foot from their garrison to intercept me. Although it was only a small detachment, and they were not particularly well armed, this was the first time that I could recall the army taking the initiative since my travels began.
Throughout the coastal province I had encountered Roman patrols, giving the place a sense of activity and warlike security. There were plenty of refugees on the roads, but life went on as normal all around, with men working in the vineyards that tumbled down to the sea.
I stayed one night in a seaside village. The inn there served me a plate of grilled fish and some passable wine which restored me greatly. In the morning I swam in the sea and washed the filth of my journey away. Along with the dust the cool water seemed to rinse away some of the troubles that had afflicted me on my odyssey across Asia and I went on my way uplifted in body and spirit. So I was considerably enheartened by the time I approached the gates of Trebizond in late afternoon of that day. The guards seemed vigilant but made no attempt to inhibit the busy flow of traffic that crowded the gates before they shut at dusk, so I squeezed my way through and decided to head straight for the governor’s palace.
My hope was to deliver the letter and at the same time discover the whereabouts of the Emperor and his army. It struck me that such was the preparedness of Trebizond and the coastal lands hereabouts that maybe Pontus was to be the launching point of some part of the campaign against the Turks. Perhaps the Emperor was coming here himself by sea from the City. Nikephoritzes’ letter might have a connection to this. In that case I might use that, and maybe even my knowledge of Bryennius and his nefarious activity to attach myself to the Imperial entourage somehow.
&nb
sp; On the other hand, Bryennius might already be in town, in which case I would have to act cautiously. In either event I would do well to learn the lie of the land as soon as I could.
As it happened I had no problems entering the palace. The guards were happy to accept my story of an important message for the governor, whose name was Theodore Gabras, and I was shown to a sparsely furnished room and asked to wait. There I paced up and down for a full hour as the sun set outside, until eventually I went looking for a guard and renewed my request for an audience.
After another long wait I decided I was being ignored and resolved to leave for the day and try again in the morning. But at that moment the door opened and an unctuous looking clerk came in holding a parchment and a stylus.
“You have something for the governor?” he said in peremptory tones.
“I do, a letter from Constantinople. From the Praetor Nicephorus.”
“Aha! Nikephoritzes!” and his eyes twinkled. “And you’re with Bryennius? Where is he?”
“What?” I asked, startled. “With Bryennius? No! I mean I was with him, and with general Comnenus but no, I was given this by the Praetor himself,” and then, “Why did you mention Bryennius? Is he not here?”
He looked at me, and a puzzled frown creased his face for a moment, before it cleared and he shrugged. “Bryennius, Comnenus. All these military folk nowadays! It is of no import. Anyway, give me the missive.” And he held out his hand.
I reached inside my tunic, but stopped myself before I brought out the eunuch’s letter. There was something about this fellow that I did not like.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t even know who you are.”
“My name is Armanis, and I’m the governor’s secretary. If you give me the letter I will deliver it to him personally.”
“And are you a slave, or a eunuch, or both?”
“How dare you?” he said, affronted, “I am a free man!”
“Well, Armanis, free man though you are, I need to see the governor in person. I was entrusted this letter in my capacity as an Imperial officer and a personal friend of the Praetor. I have no intention of handing it over to a doorman. Now, when can I see Gabras?”