Sword of Justice

by Christian Cameron

  ‘Yes,’ I said with forgivable smug pride.

  ‘I will buy him from you,’ Timurtash said through Marc-Antonio.

  I smiled. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Come, let us wager,’ Timurtash said. ‘I lead my team, you lead yours. The winner has him. I will put my horse – nay, all the horses of all the men on my team against him.’

  Marc-Antonio paled.

  Nerio laughed. ‘Done,’ he said.

  Timurtash rode away, laughing.

  I looked at my friend. ‘Damn you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be so pious,’ Nerio snapped. ‘We can beat them.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on beating them,’ I said. ‘We’re here to support diplomacy, remember?’

  Nerio winced. I rarely saw him concede an error, but he glanced at Fiore, because he hated Fiore’s criticisms. Luckily the Udine knight was still talking swords with Sir Everenos.

  ‘A draw?’ he asked.

  ‘How do you manage a draw in a mêlée?’ I snapped.

  ‘All right, I’m an arse.’ Nerio pursed his lips. ‘I’ll buy him back.’ He smiled. ‘Or he can just desert in a few days.’

  John received the plaudits of the prince and the pasha, and I waved to him and he trotted over.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ I said, or something equally useless to the occasion.

  He grinned. ‘Even for me, that last shot was from God,’ he said.

  ‘Nerio just wagered you against all the horses of the other team,’ I said.

  John turned his head. He winked. ‘Good bet,’ he said. ‘I get horse?’

  Nerio gave me his annoying ‘told you so’ look.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘You really think win?’ John asked. ‘Turks pretend happy, but mad as fuck.’

  I need to note that John’s Italian was almost as good as mine by then, until he was excited. For all his Mongol calm, he was very, very elated just then.

  Nerio shrugged. ‘They’re Turks,’ he said. ‘They chose the game. It’s not jousting or something we understand. I say we play to win.’

  L’Angars agreed. ‘They shot my horse!’ he said.

  Fiore raised both eyebrows. ‘I do not understand,’ he said. ‘Why play any game, unless to win?’

  Young Francesco pulled his new beard. ‘You gentlemen are all so confident, but I promise you these Turks will be very difficult to unhorse with nothing but cane javelins.’

  Fiore gave a little shrug. ‘No,’ he said.

  Sir Richard looked at me. ‘I’ll follow your lead, but it sticks in my craw to just give the infidels the day, even for the prince. Let them win if they can.’

  Well. There is chivalry in competition, and mayhap for a moment I was trying too hard to be a diplomat.

  ‘Win it is,’ I said.

  The mêlée began with a lot of javelin throwing. It was almost formal; a Turk opened the dance by riding out, alone, from the neat line of his companions and racing along our rank. He tossed his javelin and hit Francesco’s shield, and the crowd roared. Then Francesco rode out and tagged Sir Everenos, and so on. Francesco had played this game before, and so had Sir Richard, and they had talked us through it. I rode my ‘course’ and my little dart stuck in Timurtash’s shield and he waved at me, and a moment later his came at me, and I had to raise my shield to catch it.

  In the second encounter, the shafts were thrown with more intent. We’d been told that it was a major foul to strike a horse, just as it was among us, but it was not a foul to wound a man, and Everenos powered his second spear at me with a full overhand throw that sank the javelin’s head four fingers deep in my jousting shield. I’m happy to say I raised my shield in a flash when he threw; Fiore was firm on the use of the shield, as with all else in armizare. I reached out and broke the shaft, as I’d seen Timurtash do, and Francesco too, while waving my approval, and when it was my turn, my Arab mare raced effortlessly along the sand, more excited than tired, and I threw at a Turk I didn’t know. My hand started low, like a boy skipping stones, and then I rifled the javelin overarm from very close, and the man missed my throw and took the shaft in his thigh.

  The Kipchaks screamed a war cry.

  The Turks were silent.

  There were no more cheers, and no more congratulations of fine shots, and Timurtash aimed for Nerio’s unguarded face. His throw was like lightning, but Nerio had practised with Fiore; his shield caught enough to turn the blow. Francesco got his nose broken by a tumbling shaft meant for Fiore.

  And then the second round was over, and we lined up at opposite ends of the course. The man I’d wounded was still in the saddle.

  Francesco was struggling to breathe, so Percy turned to us.

  ‘Last team to have a man in the saddle wins,’ he said. ‘Just like home,’ he added.

  No weapons at all, except fists and horses. And every man was wearing both sword and dagger. I had to wonder who would be the first to draw.

  The Turks formed very close, exactly like the Germans in Poland had done, and they charged us. I spent a moment in admiration of their tactic.

  Fiore glanced at me. ‘Scatter,’ he said, and we did.

  There followed a fine show of trick riding. The Turks went up and down the lists, wheeling their six-man team as if they were one man – far better horsemanship than the Emperor’s team had shown.

  We just rode around them. It had a comic element; as Timurtash himself said later, it was as if they were the Franks and we were the Turks.

  ‘I’m the bait,’ Fiore said after two passes. ‘Collapse their flanks.’

  Now, you might have expected that I would be in command of this little team, but you would be wrong. Fiore had had two days to learn the rules and consider tactics. He was the leader.

  He turned his horse. The Turks were neatening their line, a hundred paces away.

  Fiore began to trot forward, alone, in the middle.

  ‘Give him ten paces,’ I said to Sir Richard, who didn’t want to abandon Fiore to the Turks.

  ‘They’ll kill him,’ Percy breathed.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Nerio said, and broke left as I broke right and the Turks charged.

  They were six abreast, but the most remarkable thing happened. One of their centre two men saw a javelin lying in the sand; javelins are allowed in every phase, and he rolled down in the saddle, almost between the horses, and plucked the javelin out of the dust, an incredible feat of horsemanship. As he rose, he crossed the javelin across his chest and the next Turk, Timurtash, grasped it by the head so that they held it between them, and they went either side of Fiore.

  Fiore rolled down, almost upside down, feet still in his stirrups, and he went under it like a dancing girl, scooped Timurtash’s left foot in his own left hand and threw him from the saddle at speed. Timurtash hit hard, and lay still, and Fiore turned his horse hard to the right – that is, towards me – even as Percy and I descended on their end man, knee to knee and far more heavily armoured than our opponent.

  He couldn’t turn in; his mates were there. He hauled on his reins and his horse reared; he turned her on her hind feet, a beautiful move, and Sir Richard’s reaching hand closed on air. But he was at a stop in the midst of the lists, and as he turned his horse, Fiore came behind him, slipped an arm around his shoulders and threw him to the ground.

  Perhaps our archers cheered, but the Turks were silent.

  I went along the back of their line, and they turned on me, four on one. In the end, a few heartbeats later, I was in the sand, although I had my arms around Sir Everenos and I carried him to the ground with me.

  Francesco went down next, as he had lingered too long, and three of them converged on him. But then, in a swirl of dust, it was over, as Fiore and Percy both downed a man. That left the last Turk, a small man, to ride around the lists, t
rying to avoid Fiore, until Nerio dropped him with one of the few mounted punches I have ever seen thrown.

  I had by then gone across the lists to Timurtash, who was conscious, and poured some water down his throat, and Marc-Antonio and two Turks and I pulled the other fallen men out of the lists.

  Everenos looked at me and shook his head. ‘I love my horse,’ he said bitterly. ‘Timurtash is a great fool.’

  ‘I will sell you your charger back for a bowl of iced sherbet,’ I said.

  And so we held the lists at Didymoteichon, although none of the contests would have been recognised by the great knights of the past. I confess that I felt, and still feel, that somehow Fiore and his tactics took some of the spirit out of the contest; certainly, the Turks long debated the utility of our swirling approach.

  ‘You learned all that from us!’ protested Everenos. ‘And you are all riding Turk horses!’

  He had a point. Certainly, my own riding was far, far better than it had been before I came out of the Holy Land, and heavy jousting saddles seemed like thrones. On the other hand, while I have often heard easterners complain about our saddles, I note that our horses seem to outlast theirs, and Fiore says our saddles are better.

  The prince came and sat by me while Marc-Antonio was unarming me.

  ‘Ever occur to you to lose a match?’ he said, a little ruefully.

  ‘It occurred to me,’ I admitted.

  Sir Richard laughed. ‘Don’t blame Sir William,’ he said. ‘We all wanted to win.’

  The prince nodded. To me he said, ‘It is not as bad as it might be. The pasha is no soldier, and he is not altogether sorry to see the spahis handed a defeat.’

  ‘And the treaty?’ Sir Richard asked.

  ‘They want Gallipoli back immediately,’ the prince said. He shrugged. ‘I gather that we are not officially negotiating. That is, all negotiations are forbidden by the sultan until the Emperor returns Gallipoli. So the tournament allows us to talk, but tomorrow they will pack up and ride back to Edirne.’ He looked at Nerio. ‘I worry about you, my lord.’

  Nerio nodded. ‘I worry too.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It is like meeting someone’s beautiful wife.’

  ‘It is?’ the prince asked.

  ‘The pleasure is immediate; but the husband may follow you for a long time,’ Nerio said. ‘I am glad we won the mêlée, but …’ He shrugged. ‘In retrospect, William may have had the longer head.’

  I shook my head. ‘Nay, I was wrong. One should never play to lose, unless with a child.’

  ‘Never is a long time,’ Prince Francesco said.

  ‘And the treaty?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ‘We will be all right,’ he said. ‘We’re merely being tested. Winning was probably the best course. We must look confident. We cannot afford to be humiliated.’ He shrugged. ‘Not unlike piracy.’

  Later there was a sumptuous feast laid on in the great pavilion, and two hundred men sat on beautiful carpets and ate mutton with saffroned rice with raisins, a fine meal but a sticky one. And if a tournament without women is dull, a dinner without them is tedious to extreme. I also missed my wife; I missed having someone with whom to exchange a few barbs, and someone to comment. Emile’s comments were always witty, unless she was in a fury, and she would have loved the Turkish camp and everything about it, and I was a little sad to be without her. I missed my children. I missed Lesvos.

  I admit it. I was not yet thirty years of age and I was thinking about a little comfort. I am unashamed.

  At any rate, the conversation rolled on, stilted, translated, and difficult, and most of it was sustained by a remorselessly cheerful Prince Francesco and the pasha, whose idea of humour became more wicked and malicious as the evening wore on. Of course, all the slaves serving us were Christian men, most of them Greeks; Sir Giannis knew one of them, and the man burst into tears on being recognised.

  ‘See how he misses his wine?’ the pasha quipped.

  This bastard is trying to humiliate us, I thought

  The Turks seemed to have no idea how long most of us had been in the east, nor that many of us spoke some Turkish and some Arabic, so that many casual asides about how dirty we were and how we smelled of pig fat and so on were easy to understand, or perhaps they meant to insult us. Let me remark, though, that the longer I lived in Outremer, the less pork I ate, and the more obvious the smell of pork became to me; I merely remark on it. Englishmen will say the same of garlic eaters.

  ‘Perhaps my guests miss the company of women,’ the pasha said. ‘I have some beauties for you to admire. They will dance.’

  A dozen women came out and danced; their bodies were handsome enough, but their faces were like stone.

  ‘Admire them all you like,’ the pasha said. ‘I promise every one of them is as Christian as you are yourself – my master had them all from a convent near Patras.’ He laughed, and so did most of the Turks, although I noticed that Timurtash made a grimace, as if he thought the remark in bad taste. But all the Turks turned and looked at us, to see what we’d do.

  Nerio leaned back and watched them. ‘I’ve had a few nuns,’ he quipped. ‘Most of them didn’t look like that. How much for the lot? I’ll buy them.’

  ‘They are my master’s,’ the pasha said. ‘Although I’m sure he would release them if peace were to be made.’

  One of the young women sobbed, and a man struck her, and she was pulled away and then they were all removed through the back of the tent.

  ‘You haven’t heard my offer,’ Nerio said.

  The pasha glanced at him. ‘I am speaking to the prince,’ he said.

  Nerio shrugged. ‘I am much richer than the prince,’ he said.

  I looked at my hands in my lap, and I touched my dagger. Nerio was playing a dangerous game.

  The pasha shrugged. ‘You serve the Emperor?’ he asked.

  Nerio laughed. ‘The Emperor is much more likely to serve me.’

  ‘Renerio!’ spat the prince.

  Nerio sneered. It was an ugly face, and he knew it. I thought he was acting; I certainly hoped so. The silence in the tent was terrible. The Turks were done being polite.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the prince said. ‘This man is Italian.’

  ‘I am the Duke of Corinth,’ Nerio said. I had never heard him use the title before.

  The pasha looked at him with interest. ‘You are Catalan?’ he asked. ‘There is a Catalan garrison in Corinth.’

  ‘Ah,’ Nerio said. ‘Thanks for that. I suppose I’ll buy them, too. My father was Niccolò Acciaioli.’

  At the name of the famous Florentine banker, several of the Turks started.

  ‘And Allah has delivered you into our hands,’ the pasha said, in Turkish.

  ‘Not really,’ Nerio said, also in Turkish.

  Many hands went to daggers and swords.

  Nerio just leaned back, uncrossed his legs, and laughed. He looked at me. ‘I was not born to be a diplomat,’ he said in Italian.

  ‘I could have told you that,’ I said.

  The prince was on his feet. ‘We will withdraw,’ he said, and I saw a look go between him and Nerio.

  ‘Perhaps I will keep you as … guests,’ the pasha said.

  ‘There will be a lot of blood, and very few guests,’ I said in my bad Turkish.

  ‘I think it is time to stop pretending,’ Gatelussi said abruptly. ‘We have a fleet and an army. You are pretending that it is ten years ago, when the Emperor had no teeth. Now our teeth are sharp. Look at today – you cannot defeat us at anything.’ He shrugged. ‘If you refuse to sign a treaty, we will take what we want.’

  ‘You dare!’ the pasha spat. ‘You are all vassals of the Sultan.’

  The prince looked around. ‘Yesterday’s news. Today, I hold all the ports, your fleet is worthless, and your army is in Asia.’

  ‘I will have you flayed ali
ve,’ the pasha said.

  The prince sighed. ‘You are a very great fool, and all of your people have heard you utter this threat. So here it is, fool: kill us, and see what you have next year. Certainly, no Turk in this tent will live to see a new year.’

  ‘You lie,’ spat the pasha.

  ‘Let us see who is a liar. The words come easily from you.’ Prince Francesco was calm; his delivery was slow. The pasha was angry and also afraid; his words came forth with too much spittle. ‘And a true son of a Turk would never threaten a guest.’

  The pasha turned red and white, as if he was diseased, and his eyes glittered. I didn’t know that the local pasha was part Albanian; I didn’t really know what was going on.

  But Everenos Bey stood and snapped a string of orders in steppe Turkish, too fast for me. And men obeyed, backing to the tent walls and going out, many by the simple expedient of rolling under the walls.

  He came and stood by me. ‘There will be no more threats,’ he said. ‘Let us see what we see in the morning.’

  ‘Are you a traitor?’ barked the pasha.

  ‘I could arrange for you to spend the night with the Christians,’ snapped the bey.

  To me, in fairly fluent Italian, he said, ‘I will send a rider to Edirne. Do not take this pompous fool for our voice.’

  I nodded. All the Franks were on their feet, and at a motion from me we gathered around the prince.

  ‘Ignore the Pasha,’ I spat in French.

  ‘I will hang you from your heels,’ the pasha shouted in Turkish. ‘I will put hooks through the bones of your legs …’

  The prince started walking towards the door.

  ‘How I hate you, you unclean dogs!’ spat the pasha.

  ‘See?’ Nerio said cheerfully. ‘By comparison, we’re master diplomats.’

  But the prince stopped and turned. ‘Hate is for amateurs,’ he said, in Italian. We walked out into the night, collected our horses in air so thick that a dagger could have cut it, and rode up the hill to our camp. I doubled the guard.

  But young Francesco said it was all negotiation.