East & West- Catharsis

by David Capel

  “I did not think that we would actually meet amidst this … this cataclysm.”

  “But perhaps it is better that we should meet like this. With you relatively undamaged, so to speak.” His black eyes glittered in his sallow face. “For it is a cataclysm, is it not? I like that Greek word! A cataclysm for Rome and your foolish Emperor. And a cataclysm for you, John Lascaris.”

  He savoured saying my name, and repeated it, rolling the words round his tongue.

  “John Lascaris.”

  Then he snapped his fingers. “Now come! Get up and join the others!”

  When I hesitated for a second he lashed out with his boot and caught me in the ribs, a blow luckily cushioned by my leather jerkin. He yelled something unintelligible, and two Turkish soldiers, scrawny and filthy, but with hands as strong as whipcord, leapt forward and grabbed me by both arms and dragged me to the growing group of officers.

  A voice cried out, “Taxiarch!” and turning my head I saw one of my own men reaching out to help me. But Erkan kicked him down, and I shouted at the soldier to leave me.

  “Dolt!” said Erkan, catching up with me. “To show such loyalty to a rat like you! And he doesn’t know how lucky he is. He nearly got himself killed!”

  And that was the last I saw of the Seventh Taron. I could not even remember the name of the soldier to whom I last spoke. Where Stethatos was I did not know. We had been close together, with many of the other men, at the time of our last stand with the central division of the army. But somehow we had become separated amidst the dusty chaos of the fighting at the end, and I had lost him by the time of the final surrender.

  Erkan was right, in the short run at least. I learnt later that most of the common soldiers were told to give up their weapons and then released. So those who survived the fighting unscathed were lucky in that they wandered off from Manzikert to fend for themselves. Yet what came of them after that is hard to say. Many journeyed west until, presumably, reaching the coastlands of Asia, or the City itself, there found some respite as beggars or casual labourers. I know that the population of the City was swelled with refugees, and there was famine at that time.

  Others perhaps roamed the hills of Anatolia near their old homes, as vagabonds or mendicants, scratching a living as the priest Adrianos and his people were. But few returned to their farms or their valleys. All was lost at Manzikert, and the Taron with it.

  “Hey you!” cried a Roman officer at Erkan when we joined the group. He was short and rather fat, and his red glistening face shone through the dust.

  “I saw you strike that man. What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re officers. I demand to be taken to your superior!”

  Erkan stalked over to him and looked at him up and down. In a blur of movement he punched him full in the stomach and the man doubled over and collapsed to his knees. Then Erkan kicked him in the head and body again and again. When he stopped, panting, he said, “you are not an officer, fat man. You are my slave. And I have no superior.”

  With that he bent down and tore the stricken man’s belt off and held it up. It was an expensive piece, thick beaten leather, embossed with intricate silver and gold. Erkan tossed it to one of his subordinates and garbled something in Turkish. Our captors laughed. Then Erkan called out a rough command, and the guards pushed us along and we all set off as a group away from the prone Roman army and through the ranks of the Turks.

  The fat officer could barely walk, and stumbled along, retching, holding up his breeches, much to the merriment of those we passed. Once or twice Erkan stopped to exchange pleasantries with senior looking Turks, but his men chivvied us along without respite, until we had cleared the enemy lines and reached a bushy grove a few hundred paces beyond. Here there was a wagon half filled with gear, and more Turks with horses tethered alongside a small encampment. A fire was lit, for dusk was upon us, and Erkan rattled out a stream of orders.

  We were shoved into a rough circle away from the fire and forced to squat down. One of the Turks fetched something heavy from the wagon and dragged it over. At first I could not see what it was in the fading light, until I heard the clank of metal and saw that he had a long chain slung over his shoulder.

  A mutter of anger and concern rose from among us. We had been cowed until now by the violence of Erkan, but this new barbarity was too much.

  “Silence!” shouted Erkan in Greek. “You are my prisoners, and I reserve the right to bind you in the hours of darkness. Any resistance will be met with appropriate punishment. In the morning you will be unchained.”

  So there we sat, disconsolate, while the Turkish soldier draped the long chain across us. It was strung with manacles and he gestured for us to strap one to an ankle, hopping on one leg and clasping it with his hands to show us what he meant. It might have been a comic sight, but when one of our number was slow to obey, the Turk drew a cruel looking dagger and advanced on him menacingly.

  When all were shackled he went from one to the next with a key to bolt the manacles shut. So there we sat in the darkness of our first night in captivity, wondering what in Hell or on Earth would become of us. Two guards watched us throughout the night, changing over to a set rota, and pacing up and down around us like wolves. Those who needed to relieve themselves were ignored, and soon the stench of human waste drifted over us. I fingered my lock in the darkness, and supposed that with a stone and plenty of time I could break it. But the sentries looked as if they knew their business, and I was weary and sick from fear and despair, so soon I slept.

  The morning air was cool despite the season, and most of us woke shivering without our cloaks or blankets. Before long two Turks came with wooden bowls for us, filled with a kind of gruel that was tasteless but filling. We scraped it up with our fingers and ate hungrily. I saw that the wagon had several sacks of the meal in it, as well as the eating utensils. Erkan and his crew seemed well prepared for us, but I puzzled over his intentions. At first I had worried that he somehow knew of my involvement with the imperial plotters. He had himself posed as a Roman mercenary after all, and undoubtedly was a spy of some sort.

  But my fellow captives did not seem particularly significant from a military or political point of view. Most were middle ranking officers, probably considerably less wealthy than I was (or had been until recently). There were perhaps two dozen of us, so I speculated that Erkan might be hoping to make some money from ransom, though it would be a complicated business contacting all of our families.

  At any rate there was no sign of the man that morning, and none of his men seemed to speak any Greek, so we had no way of discovering their intentions. To our consternation our manacles were not removed. Some of us protested, and I joined in the clamour, invoking Erkan and trying to explain that he had ordered our release the night before.

  I was speaking loudly and gesticulating, indicating a key, when there was a terrific flash in my eyes like red and black, followed by a stunning, burning double blow, and before I knew it I had my face in the dust and my head was ringing like a gong. I lay there stunned, trying stupidly to understand what had happened to me. I put my hand to my head and felt the hot, shocking slime of my own blood.

  A familiar accented voice spoke from behind me. “Erkan is here. And it is Erkan who says that the chains must stay. You’re stubborn rats, and we have no other way of making sure that you don’t scuttle back to your people yonder. Now, we have a long way to go, so let us make a start. The sun is climbing already! You do not want to spend too long marching in the heat, I can tell you. Now move!”

  And with that his minions cajoled us into line, and one of them dragged me to my feet. I tried to wipe the blood from my face, but it was seeping everywhere, until a Turk thrust a dirty cloth at me and bound it roughly round my wound, a nasty gash along the side of my neck and jaw.

  I looked at Erkan and there he stood, holding a long, cruel whip, which he coiled expertly and hung on the saddle of his horse which stood nearby. He mounted, shouting something to his men, and we al
l shuffled forward.

  It is impossible to describe the true horror of that first day. I was dizzy from the whip blow and fall, but that did not stop me from living every ghastly moment. To begin with, we jerked and pulled at each other with the long chin of manacles until within an hour our bound ankles were chafed and cut to red sores. We quickly learned to walk closely bunched together, so that the short lengths of chain between us had slack enough to give us leeway. But by then it was too late. Even a small wound of that nature gets worse with every touch, and it was impossible to stop the metal from grating against our opening wounds.

  The unrelenting agony became worse with exhaustion. For the strange weight of the chain, combined with the awkward gait we had to assume, placed an awful strain on the muscles in our calves. The day’s march would have taxed even a fit man. I was used to such exertions, but many of my companions were wont to travel on horseback, and they suffered cruelly in the August sun.

  The large man who had first met with Erkan’s ire the day before suffered most of all. After just a couple of hours he was toiling badly, limping and panting, and wincing with the pain of every step. I believe he must have cracked a rib or two in his beating, and he had trouble breathing.

  Before noon he fell for the first time, yanking the chain painfully for the two either side of him, who yelled and cursed. A Turk leapt down from his pony and kicked the officer twice in the back, and the poor man dragged himself to his feet.

  We resumed our ragged march, but within minutes the man fell for a second time. Despite their yelps of pain, this time his neighbours stooped to help him, trying to save him from another beating. He staggered on with the rest of us, but it was no good. After a few more shuffled strides he fell for a third time, and this time rolled over, bleating in pain and desperation.

  “Leave me, leave me I beg you. I can’t go on.”

  A Turk made towards him, but there was a barked command from Erkan, who cantered back from his position in the van. He looked down from his mount at the stricken Roman, who continued his gabbled pleas for mercy.

  “Sir, please, I can’t go on. Leave me here, or for the love of God give me a mount so that I can return. I will not take up arms again, I promise.”

  “You are right. You cannot go on. And you are no use to us. But you cannot return.” And now he raised his voice to address all of us. “You cannot return. None of you can. The best hope you have is of obedience. Obedience to me! That is all. And this man cannot obey.”

  He snarled some words in Turkish, and another man came up brandishing the key to the manacles. He released the officer, and two of them dragged him to one side. Then, to my enduring horror, Erkan dismounted and drew his sword. The Roman saw this and gabbled in panic, trying to raise himself to his feet and holding up his arms to protect himself.

  “No!” I shouted, despite myself, but Erkan struck, slashing forward, and the fat Roman caught the point of the blade with his hand, so the Turk pulled it back again, and there was a fountain of bright red blood and I saw a finger severed by the blow. The man screamed, and Erkan struck again, this time straight into his belly, lunging forward with all his weight. The stricken man screamed again, with a deeper, wrenching howl, and Erkan pulled back his sword, black with blood, with a sucking, grating sound that sent a ghastly shiver down my spine.

  The officer – only then did I realise that I did not even know his name – writhed in agony, clutching at his belly, where the blood welled up and drained into the dust. But he did not die at once.

  “He is for the birds!” cried Erkan, “and so will you be all, if you counter my will again. March on!”

  And with that we clanked on past the dying man, sobbing and moaning his life out into the dirt of Asia.

  **

  Worse was to come that night. As dusk approached Erkan called a halt, and we captives fell where we stood, parched and burning from the sun, and throbbing with pain from our legs and the chafing wounds of our ankles. We could not have been more than ten miles from Manzikert, so slowly had we crawled in our chains. And yet the country round about was empty. It was a barren, stony land, with mountains in the distance but barely a tree or a brook. Erkan really had led us into the wilderness.

  There the Turks lit a fire once more, and we could see them preparing a cauldron of meal as in the morning. Then two of them came over to us, and made for the man at the end of the line. They unshackled him and guided him over to the fire, and I assumed that they had decided to feed us in turn.

  But then there was an almighty shriek, and we saw the captive struggling against his guards. The three of them were silhouetted against the fire in the deepening dusk, wriggling as if in some infernal dance at the doors of Hell.

  “No, no!” he cried, as they wrestled him to the ground and pinioned his arms and legs, and he shouted, louder than before, his voice breaking. “You bastards! get off me, you fucking swine,” and then there was a strange hissing noise that sent my hairs on end, and the Roman bellowed in agony and then was dragged back to us.

  “Jesus”, said my neighbour and we all wondered what new devilry these fiends had prepared for us. The first man was brought back to his manacle, and sat there sobbing, while the second was dragged forcibly to the fire.

  “What happened? What in Hell is going on?” we asked him, but at first he could say nothing, but lay there moaning and clutching his ankle. I noticed it was the other one from that held by the iron bond, unless they had changed it over. Then he said it, and everything made sense at last.

  “Branded, by God, the vermin! Branded!”

  My turn came all too soon, and I followed the others down the path of torture, but each of us struggled less than the one before. By the time they got to me I was almost in a faint from fear and nausea at the disgusting smell that pervaded the camp site. I think I soiled myself as they pulled me to the fire, not that it made much difference to the animal state we had come to by now.

  As in a nightmare I watched them bare my leg, and then Erkan himself drew the iron from the fire, glowing red hot. At the last I struggled and with the sudden movement I momentarily freed an arm, and I punched one of my captors as hard as I could in the groin.

  It was a glancing blow, but the Turk howled, and then kicked me in the back.

  “Don’t make it hard on yourself, Lascaris,” snarled Erkan, and he grinned like a devil at my plight. For an instant I felt the heat of the thing, and then a sudden burst of horrid pain, and then one of them slapped me where the burn was, and it was over, much less painfully that I had supposed. Back in my place I poked at the burn, which was now throbbing intensely, and I saw that it had been smeared with grease of some kind.

  When the gruesome procession was over, the Turks brought us our meal, with water and a little extra bread. We sat there, sullen, sore and humiliated. But we ate greedily nonetheless, and then fell into an exhausted slumber. It is a condition of slavery to be thankful for small mercies.

  The following morning Erkan removed our manacles and we walked more freely. My guess is that on the first day he sought to break us in spirit, as well as wound our legs to make flight more difficult.

  Perhaps too he felt safer now that we were away from the two armies, both Turkish and Roman. For now that his intention was clear, it seemed to me that he ran some risks in enslaving us. God knows the practice was common enough, but I wondered whether he had the authority to take Roman officers for his own profit, so soon after the battle’s end, and before any treaty or agreement between the two sides had been signed.

  I resolved to find out by asking him, but did not have the chance for a while, for our escort rode more warily now that we were unbound, with scouts and outriders set to prevent any escape. Erkan spent that day riding to and fro and spying out the ground ahead.

  I formed the notion of trying to establish some kind of rapport with Erkan. Not only would I find out what had happened at Manzikert, and his own intentions for us, but also it might enhance my chances of escape, or at l
east of receiving more lenient treatment.

  On the third day, as we marched over the stony ground, like the Israelites on their way to captivity in Babylon, I found that I was consistently ahead of my fellow Romans. I put this extra strength down to my long trek on foot from Theodosiopolis to join the Seventh Taron, and thence to the battle, for even with the command of the regiment I had spent much of my time marching with the men.

  So it was that I found myself walking not far behind Erkan, and in this way sought to understand my captor and enemy the better. The first thing I noticed was how fastidious he was. Despite the heat and the discomfort of our march, and his insalubrious companions, he always made sure that his clothes and gear were in good order. He was sallow faced and evil looking, but not ugly, and set a trim and upright figure on his horse. I guessed that he was about thirty years old. He was well dressed, with expensive looking leather armour and ornamented weaponry, so overall he was a cut above the other Turks I came across on my travels across Asia. Certainly he stood out from his own beggarly band, who stank to a man.

  The more I observed him, the more he intrigued me, so eventually I jogged ahead of the rest of the prisoners and asked him where he was taking us. He looked down in surprise and suspicion.

  “And why do you want to know, Lascaris?” he said with a frown. And then, muttering to himself that it would make no difference, he added “to Damascus, if you would know. There is a growing slave market there, since the arrival of the Seljuks. You and your comrades should fetch a good price there.”

  “And why us, in particular?”

  “Why you, do you mean, Lascaris? Why, because I dislike you, of course, even more than most Romans. You deserve slavery. And though you are a rat, like the other officers you will command a premium over other Romans. Not, I think, because you have any worthwhile education, but because of the buyers’ innate snobbery.”

  “Where did you learn to speak our language, Erkan? For one who hates the Romans so, you speak Greek very well.”