Let me add as a further aside that mere fighting men like me tended to take a more pragmatic view. I have heard Mass in many a Greek church, and if I go to Hell for that, I’ll probably laugh, after all the other sins I’ve committed. Or perhaps not; it will, after all, be Hell.
Regardless, by the middle of our century there was rapprochement. It had become clear to the west that the fall of Constantinople would be terrible for all of Christendom. It had become clear to the leaders of the renewed Byzantine Empire – that’s another story, how the Greeks took back their own from the Latins, but let’s leave that for now, shall we? So, as I say, it had become clear to the Emperors that without some sort of alliance in the west, they were doomed. Alliance with the very Latins who had just attempted to conquer them, or alliance with Islam. And, to be fair, they tried both.
In the end, Latin Christians appeared the more reliable allies, although I suspect it was a close contest. And when the Green Count rescued the Emperor – that is, when Fiore and Miles and Nerio and I rescued him – we cemented that alliance, all unknowingly. The Emperor vowed to renounce the Greek rite and adopt the Latin rite, in return for subsidies of money and direct military aid such as that offered by the count.
I’m boring you. But you must understand this to understand the war that was brewing – the war we have today.
Prince Francesco shook his head, as I say. He was literally biting his lower lip, trying not to speak his mind.
The Emperor sat back on his throne and put his elegant head in his ascetic saint’s hand. ‘Listen to me, Francesco,’ he said, as if they were the butcher and the baker arguing politics. ‘I must declare for the Latin rite. I need the money. I need the armed might of your Latin knights. I need the friendship of the Pope.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And I need to curb my patriarch and his fanatics, or I will be carried away like a boy on a runaway stallion. Except this stallion is running east, not west.’
Gatelussi tugged at his beard, bowed, and said nothing.
‘Ah, come, my old friend. Most reliable counsellor. Vicious pirate. Speak to me.’
‘I will speak, with the Emperor’s permission,’ Gatelussi said carefully.
The Emperor nodded.
Prince Francesco glanced at me and shrugged, as if throwing caution to the winds.
‘The Patriarch and the Church will never accept the Pope,’ Gatelussi said. ‘Your own Church … That runaway stallion …’
‘My own Church, that refuses to accept any form of tax, that is the largest landowner, that pays for not a single soldier,’ the Emperor said bitterly.
‘Exactly,’ Francesco said. ‘If you do this, they will depose or murder you – and besides, no one in the city will accept your decision. No one. The horse is already running. I am not certain that your Church even recognises that you are essential.’
‘You overstep your bounds, cousin,’ the Emperor said.
Francesco Gatelussi shrugged. ‘As long as you dangle the possibility of conversion, the Pope will help us,’ he said. ‘As soon as you actually convert, they’ll see how little they’ve accomplished …’
‘Enough,’ the Emperor said. ‘I do not serve my people to plot duplicity.’
‘I do,’ Gatelussi said cheerfully.
I was in shock. That is, I had heard a rumour that the Greek Emperor might return to the Latin faith; such a reunification would have incredible consequences, for everything from the profitability of Venetian trade to the possibility of the reconquest of Jerusalem. I could imagine who, in Europe, would be for or against the reunification. For example, I could see that Genoa would be against it, as they would lose trade and power. What I didn’t understand was the authority of the Greek Church. I had three – or even four – feudal masters. I didn’t find it odd to serve Gatelussi and the King of Cyprus and the King of England and the Count of Savoy, and mayhap another for pay. Why did the Greek Church buck like a young colt at the rule of the faraway Pope?
They went on for some time, about the patriarch, and his politics, and the customs to deprive the Genoese of some of their income. Genoa, of course, would be against reunification; their profits would dwindle away.
I lost interest, staring at the shabby-genteel wall hangings and the magnificent mosaics undimmed by time. I stood there and wondered if the reunification might really happen. I still wonder. It was the brainchild of Father Pierre – his dream, and the dream of my Hospitaller brethren. I certainly already had a side.
When we left, the chamberlain bowed deeply to me and proclaimed me Spatharios. I gave him a gold florin, which he accepted cheerfully. As I have said, I have some other titles from the Greeks; they are meaningless. But all four of us – Miles, Nerio, Fiore and I – were named Spatharios, and I use the title to this day. I like to imagine that I stand at the head of a long line of men who have guarded the throne, back to the days of the Caesars.
We mounted our horses and rode through the city, much of which was empty – a city built for perhaps a million people, with perhaps the population of London living in it. There were no slums; everyone had a good house. It had been sacked in 1204 and taken again in 1260 or thereabouts, and the plague was terrible there. And yet it was having an almost miraculous recovery. Almost everywhere you looked there were heavy wooden cranes and scaffolding – repairs, even new construction on old foundations.
Prince Francesco glanced at me. ‘The Empire is not done yet,’ he said.
‘I didn’t think that it was,’ I said.
We walked our horses, avoiding a huge pile of building materials piled in the street. I suppose I asked him some questions about the schism, because he raised an eyebrow. ‘You can read?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Latin?’ he asked.
Well, I had indeed spent almost a year working on my Latin with Sister Marie. She was gone with my wife, but I could, with care and time and a little help from Nerio or Fiore, make my way through Latin. I was, that spring, reading Saint Augustine.
‘You might consider … becoming acquainted with the whole of the Filioque controversy,’ he said. ‘I am not making a jest. In the end, we will need to understand this foolish schism to overcome it.’
I just frowned. ‘I am a man of arms,’ I said.
‘I used to tell myself that,’ Gatelussi said. ‘Now I find that I need to understand each issue myself. Even if I need to be lessoned by experts, I cannot be ignorant.’ He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Life was easier when I killed everyone I didn’t like.’
I laughed.
He smiled. ‘At least the Emperor approved our little expedition,’ he said.
‘He did?’ I asked.
‘Not in so many words,’ Prince Francesco said with a gentle smile. ‘But he did. The Green Count is off Regium. He’s trying to lay siege to a Turkish fortress with no engines. At least it’s a Karamanid town; we will help him take it.’
The count had never been so glad to see me. I might have been touched, if I had liked him better. He and Richard Musard came down to the pebble beach together, and when I knelt, the count raised me.
He appeared even more moved when Prince Francesco landed.
‘I brought a siege train,’ Prince Francesco said. ‘And between our shared liegeman, Sir William, and my own people, I bring you two hundred good men.’
Count Amadeus nodded. ‘I’m pretending to lay siege to this place with six hundred men,’ he said. ‘The blessing of Saint Maurice on you for coming.’
Indeed, it was all very debonair, despite the small numbers. The Turkish garrison sent out a champion every day, and one of the Savoyard knights would fight him. It appeared to me that the Savoyards enjoyed these single combats so much that they didn’t mean to prosecute the siege at all. It was a little like a tournament, with the added element of danger, but only two men had been killed in fifteen days of siege – one Savoyard, one Turk.
The Savoyards didn’t love us, though, and when Fiore offered to take a turn with one of the Turks, he was brusquely told that the sport was for gentlemen, not routiers, by a tall, handsome Savoyard knight, Georges Mayot.
I had thought that I’d become quite a mature man, that spring: husband, father, pious Christian.
Apparently not. I stepped between the sneering Savoyard and Fiore. ‘I tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll fight you right here, and save you the trip to the castle walls.’
The Savoyard frowned. ‘It’s time someone cut your comb, cock,’ he said, and drew.
‘Why do you get to fight instead of me?’ Fiore said. ‘He insulted me, not you.’
‘Draw or I’ll gut you,’ spat the Savoyard.
‘I challenged him,’ I said to Fiore, trying to push past.
The Savoyard cut at Fiore, a man whose sword was in his sheath. I make no excuses for him.
Fiore had been wounded almost to death five months before, and he had just fought in a tournament.
His sword rose from the scabbard like a stone from a siege engine. He crossed his adversary’s blade early in his cut, and his left hand slammed out, striking the man’s elbow so hard there was a crack as his joint was overstressed, and he was turned and Fiore’s sword was at his throat.
‘Beg my pardon, you idiot,’ Fiore said. ‘And if that’s the measure of your skill at arms, don’t humiliate us in front of the Turks.’
The Savoyard eventually begged his pardon. Fiore handed him back his sword.
‘It’s amazing how quickly Fiore makes friends,’ Nerio said.
Fiore glared at Nerio. ‘What was I to do?’ he asked.
‘If you’d killed him instead of casually humiliating him, things would be better,’ Nerio said. ‘That’s all right, my dear. It was beautiful to watch.’
Fiore glanced at me. I admit, I was laughing. ‘I miss Stapleton,’ Fiore said. ‘When he was here, you didn’t gang up on me.’
Nerio paused. ‘I hate to be unfair,’ he said. ‘Shall we gang up on William instead?’ He looked out to sea. ‘I hate all this waste. No one cares whether we take this town or not. We are not reconquering the Holy Land. We’re kicking an anthill.’
Well. As I said at the start, we were all losing our taste for crusade.
After five days, Prince Francesco lost his patience and set up the trebuchets. He didn’t ask the count’s permission; he was, after all, the Emperor’s Admiral, among other offices.
The first stone struck one of the ageing, Roman-style square towers. The whole corner collapsed – tower, underpinnings, curtain wall and all.
The Turks surrendered. Immediately.
I swear the Savoyard knights muttered that we’d ruined everything.
The scenes that followed had the quality of a dark jest, the sort of jest that can lead to blood. We entered the town after taking the garrison. That is, my people took the garrison under guard and led them to the prince’s fleet, where they were all fed. The Karamanid captain was called Mehmet Bey, and I sat with him, ate the food so that he knew it was not poisoned, and smiled often. I even trotted out my fifty words of Turkish.
John the Kipchak came and sat with us.
‘He says, am I slave?’ John rendered.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll all be ransomed.’
The man ate better after that. I went and asked the prince. He was in the town, which proved, when I was inside it, to be very small and smelled terrible. Even fifteen days of siege is enough to pile up quite a lot of carrion and garbage.
I found him shouting at Count Amadeus, who was shouting back.
‘Are you a fucking idiot?’ Prince Francesco asked. ‘How will the garrison be fed?’
‘Your ships can feed them,’ Amadeus roared, ‘if you are not too much of a coward to—’
‘Coward? Listen, you French turd, I was killing Saracens when your mother was a virgin!’ Francesco was clearly very angry.
Swords were drawn. I pushed in until I was between the two men, and there I was, eye to eye with Richard Musard.
In my Anglo-Norman French, I said, ‘My lord, he is merely angry,’ to the count, who had his hand on his hilt. There was Georges Mayot again with his sword in his hand. I wondered if his elbow hurt. Two more Savoyard knights also drew.
Musard began speaking, low and fast, in his excellent French.
I went to work on the prince. ‘Your Grace,’ I said, ‘you are both angry and tired.’
‘This … this popinjay … thinks he can leave a garrison in fucking Asia.’ He hissed the words in Italian.
‘My lord, the Turkish captain wishes to know if he is to be ransomed.’ I asked this in a level voice.
Gatelussi shook his head. ‘No, by Christ. Let him and his people go, with their horses and arms. I want no quarrel with Ustman Bey. And this is his second son, eh?’
‘I have no idea,’ I admitted.
Gatelussi shook his head. ‘These fools want to kill the garrison and loot the town,’ he said. ‘Fucking foreigners.’
I had never seen him like this. He was always the cold, calculating professional. I bowed, and caught his son’s eye. His son slipped up and put an arm around his father. Musard had the count’s helmet under his arm. He gave me a wink.
‘How will we divide the town, then?’ the count asked.
The prince’s son shrugged. ‘We took it. You did nothing but play military games. We had our tournament in Mytilene; it is nothing to us if you choose to have yours here, but we took the town.’
The count looked genuinely surprised. ‘No, I took the town,’ he said. ‘I am in command. And all of you are serving me.’
The prince looked as if he might immolate like a phoenix, but his son was calm. ‘I am sorry, my lord. A simple misunderstanding. My father is the Emperor’s admiral. You are a visiting noble. You only make war here with the Emperor’s permission. You have no command.’
‘I have no command?’ Amadeus asked. ‘My soldiers have done all the fighting …’
I stepped in again. ‘My lords, as I serve you both, may I speak? My prince, the count deserves better justice than this. His soldiers have taken Gallipoli and Mesembria; they have served the Emperor many times. And, my lord count, the prince is the Emperor’s commander in these waters and, in addition, he has been with you in almost every campaign, and his siege engines were, in fact, the tool that took the town.’
Amadeus looked at me, considering. ‘So?’
I glanced at Prince Francesco, afraid of his rage. ‘The town is worthless,’ I said. ‘The walls are crumbling. Look for yourselves what a single blow from a modern weapon did. We have neither the stonemasons nor the time to restore the walls and tower, which means that the next Turkish brigand to stroll by will take it from us and butcher the garrison.’
The count looked out from the walls for a moment. And shrugged. ‘Ah, bien. Very well, then,’ he said. ‘I concede your point. My blood was hot. Your Grace, will you accept the apology of a hot, tired man?’
Now, let me just say, here, that I was not really fond of the count. But suddenly, in one gracious apology, he made himself a better man in my eyes. A popinjay – sometimes a hypocrite, and a very difficult, very rich hypocrite. But an apology is a fine thing, and many of us might learn from this.
At any rate, Prince Francesco stood rigid a moment, afraid, perhaps, that he was being made game of. But then he unbent, literally; he smiled warmly and clasped the count’s hand.
‘My lord, you speak like a true knight. Listen: the only thing of value in this town is the lives of the garrison. They are probably worth a thousand ducats. Let us split their value.’
The Green Count nodded. ‘Done. But, Your Grace, if this little town is worthless, why am I attacking it?’
Prince Francesco drank off a cup of watered wine his son pu
t in his hand. I poured another from the same pitcher and put it in Richard’s hand, and the count drank it off. Both men were red in the face, hot and tired, standing hatless in the full beat of the sun.
Musard was actually pleading with me, wordlessly. Prince Francesco was on the edge of another explosion, I could tell.
I stepped forward again. ‘My lord, every one of these towns in Turkish hands is a nest of petty pirates – local fishermen prey on every passing ship, Genoese, Venetian, or Greek.’ So Richard Percy had told me. Of course, he went on to say that the deadly galleys of the Gatelussi swept the coast clean every two or three seasons and made a profit at it. ‘And, my lord, you wished for a further empris, to engage with the infidel enemy.’
Prince Francesco glanced at me, the way your wife does when you say something painfully obvious at the dinner table. His son Francesco winked, and I knew that I was on the right track.
Amadeus shrugged against the weight of his armour. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I still do. I swore oaths at home to fight the Infidel – yet I am here and nothing is as I expected.’
We were standing in the sun in a tiny fortified town on the coast of Asia and the Count of Savoy had just begun to see the complexity of the world of Outremer. I tried not to look at the prince. Instead I said, ‘My lord count, last year when the Bulgarians took the Emperor, some of us thought … that the Turks, at least the Karamanids, must be in league with them.’
‘Ah!’ the count said. The idea pleased him. Of course it did; it put the seal of crusade on all his actions. ‘Yes, Richard has mentioned this.’
Prince Francesco raised his hand, silencing me even as I began to speak. ‘So, if nothing else, we show that we can still chastise them for interference.’
Amadeus smiled cynically. ‘This I understand. This is exactly like the politics of home. Savoy and Montferrat and Milan.’
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