Assassins of Kantara

by James Boschert

  Pantoleon felt searing pain everywhere, including his crotch, which appeared to be bleeding. He looked down and cried out. His testicles were missing; where they had been was a bloody ruin. He began to weep. He was now not even half a man.

  “Stop complaining,” said the man on the other side of the tree. “At least you are alive and not burning in that.” He gestured towards the bonfire.

  “Dear God, I wish I was!” Pantoleon cried in anguish. “Where are we? Are we in hell?” he asked the world at large.

  “No, but we are very close to it. You need to get over this and focus on how we get home.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am a soldier, or was, until this fuck up,” the person replied. “My name is Gabros. Pleased to meet you, Pantoleon, charioteer.”

  “You know me?’

  “Even through the mess you are in right now, I recognize you. You were my favorite man in the arena. I won some good bets on you.”

  Pantoleon groaned. “I am weak from loss of blood. I can’t think.”

  Take a cloth; there’s one, they won’t miss it. Go down to the river and clean yourself up. Someone was careless: they have been cutting everything off, not just the balls. You’re lucky you still have your pecker. Go on, they won’t chase you unless you try to escape, and then its over.” He drew his finger tips across his throat. “Stay alive, Senator boy.”

  “Why are they burning the bodies?” Pantoleon asked, leaning his head back against the tree with care. His entire scalp burned furiously.

  “Because on this side there is a village and they want to clean up the mess so it does not spread to their homes. Wolves have already come, and worse would follow. They might make a pyre on the other side of the water later, but right now it’s this side they are cleaning up.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I speak Turkish, I called out to them when they came for me and they spared me for that reason alone,” he glanced meaningfully down at himself and followed with. “I spent the night in hiding and was about to rejoin the army when I was captured. I’ve been here ever since. I’m hungry, just like you, so stop whining and clean up, Senator boy. Your wounds will fester if you don’t.”

  “Shut up with the Senator thing,”

  Pantoleon limped down to the water’s edge and began to clean himself, wincing with agony as he applied the cold water to his wounds. The Turks merely glanced at him, then returned to their gruesome work.

  Half an hour later, he came back and sat down painfully next to Gabros. His wounds were excruciatingly sore, but they were cleaned now, and he wore a loincloth he had found that was clean enough.

  “Why did the Turks do this to all of us?” he demanded.

  “Because they nearly lost the battle and didn’t want the Greeks to know who was who when our army came back down the pass on its way home. They did it to their own as well as the Greeks. A ruthless thing to do, but its aim, to demoralize the Greek army, probably worked. What would you think if you had to march back down and see all the bodies like this? I wonder how many got through before the Turks closed in and finished them off completely?”

  Later that day, when Pantoleon was weak with hunger and ready to pass out, the Turkish men shouted at the two of them to get up and come with them back to the village that was perched high on one of the hills overlooking the ravine. It was a long, painful journey for Pantoleon, but Gabros who was unwounded helped him along, and he was grateful for the assistance because the Turks gave them none.

  After what seemed like hours of climbing they reached the village and were greeted by curious women and children who stared, chattered among themselves, and pointed at the two prisoners. The heavily laden men shouted at the more inquisitive children to stay away and slapped those too slow to do so.

  The prisoners were hustled into a low, dark, mud-walled room and left alone. They could hear an intense, shouted argument going on between the men who had brought them up the hill and an old man with a long white beard, who seemed to be angry that they had brought prisoners back with them. Gabros, his ear to the door, told Pantoleon that the old man wanted to have them killed, but one of their former captors wanted to sell them instead, claiming they could make money out of the deal.

  The village quieted as dusk began to fall. The children, who had been trying to peer into the room through the splits in the wooden door, finally left; later still, the door was rattled open by one of their guards and two bowls of mast, a very strong yoghurt, and some flat bread were placed just inside by a veiled woman who pointed at the food and then to her mouth. Gabros and Pantoleon seized their bowls and shoveled the bitter yoghurt into their mouths, wiping the crude earthenware bowls clean with the last of the bread.

  “We have to leave this place as quickly as we can,” Gabros told Pantoleon. “They are going to take us east to sell us along with other prisoners. Once there we will never escape, and even if we did it would be impossible to get home across that country swarming with tribespeople.”

  “We would need horses, too,” Pantoleon remarked from his squatting position against one of the walls. Right now he could hardly keep his eyes open, he was so exhausted.

  “We should rest and think,” Gabros said in the darkness. “Tomorrow might present us with an opportunity.”

  His words fell on deaf ears. Pantoleon was already fast asleep.

  Two nights later he was woken by Gabros, who had a hand across his mouth as he shook him roughly awake. “Shhh, it is time to leave. They got careless,” Gabros whispered. He had managed to pick the latch on the door and had discovered the young sentry fast asleep, along with the rest of the slumbering village.

  “Can you walk and run?” he asked Pantoleon, who nodded. His wounds had scabbed over, and thanks to Gabros’ intervention they were healing cleanly. He knew it was now or never, so he tried to ignore the pain in his groin and his burns and listened while Gabros explained what they were going to do. Their way out was not to try for the nearest town of Dorylaeum, which was to their east and would be the most obvious: that way was surely discovery and death. The road to that town would be full of Turkish cavalry still looking for stragglers.

  “They’ll still be picking over the loot abandoned by the emperor,” Gabros said. “We have to go south over the mountains to Attalia. If we even survive to get away it will be a hard journey; can you make it?”

  Pantoleon didn’t need to be told what it was going to cost them, but to stay was to become a slave, and he didn’t want that. No, he had a burning desire to get home and take his revenge on those who’d abandoned him.

  Gabros proved to have some skill at the art of silent killing. The young sentry barely spasmed as he was despatched, which allowed them to make their way unhindered to the edge of the village. There were horses stabled here, not many, as the villagers were hill people, but being Turkish they kept the animals for their journeys. It was not hard to lead the animals out quietly and then to mount two, although it was painful for Pantoleon to do so. The other three they led behind them as they took a dimly lit path up the mountain, instead of heading for the road.

  Going the opposite direction to the obvious might give them a couple of days grace. They were still almost naked, but the dead sentry at the door and the one who had been guarding the horses now wore less clothing than the two fugitives. The young moon assisted them to climb the steep slopes of the mountain that night. They were armed with the crude spears and knives of the dead men, but against the fury of any pursuers they would stand no chance, so they rode all night, stopping only at streams to allow themselves and the horses to drink. They had no food, but hunger was the least of their considerations; they needed to put as much distance between themselves and the village as they could, because once their escape was discovered it would resemble a hornets’ nest of rage.

  Pantoleon had good reason to be glad of Gabros from that moment forth, as he proved to be a tough and resilient companion. He knew how to cover their tracks and t
o conserve their ponies, which were shaggy, tough little animals, ideal for the rugged terrain they were traversing. They stayed just below the snow line on the edge of the forests that spread down into the deep valleys below. In the very early hours they would stop and rest, huddled together near the ponies, listening to the night calls of the nocturnal creatures. Every night they heard wolves, and sometimes Pantoleon thought he could see their ghostly forms slinking between the trees not far away. The ponies would become restless and the men went without sleep, staying awake to calm the animals.

  After two full days and nights of almost nonstop climbing up and over the mountain range known as the Torus Mountains, moving along ill-defined goat paths or trackless terrain, they found themselves overlooking a deep valley rich in grassland and trees, with a river running along the center. Pantoleon was weak with hunger and so exhausted he could hardly stay upright on the pony.

  Gabros, although he, too, was weary, was wide awake and still alert. He took a good look at the ground and the area into which they were about to descend and stated that it looked safe enough to stop for half a day to allow the horses to feed. Pantoleon himself needed to eat but there had been nothing so far, just water from the mountain streams. Worse than the gnawing in his belly was the wound in his groin: due to the constant motion of his mount it had not healed well and was beginning to fester. He was relieved to be able to get off the pony and rest.

  Gabros disappeared, leaving him sitting against a fir tree with his eyes shut and dreaming of Constantinople. Should he survive, which despite the best efforts of Gabros he doubted, he would arrive home looking grotesque and might never be able to race in the arena again. One thing he promised himself: he would avenge himself upon those who had abandoned him. This resolve was slowly becoming a white hot anger that sustained him despite the agony of his wounds, the hunger, and the sheer exhaustion that dogged him.

  He must have slept, because when he awoke it was to find two shaggily dressed men sitting on equally shaggy ponies standing about twenty paces away from him. They were muttering to each other in what he took to be Turkish, gesturing towards him. He started, but then froze, his heart pounding. They had been discovered, and these men carried bows. There was no escape!

  But as he stared at them in hopeless resignation one of the mounted men opened his mouth wide and threw his arms up in the air. Then, before his companion could do more than gawk, he tumbled off his pony to fall in an untidy heap on the ground, a spear protruding from his back. The next thing that Pantoleon saw was a big rock flying through the air to collide with the head of the second rider. His eyes crossed and he also tumbled to the ground, where he lay stunned. Gabros darted out of the bushes behind and, kneeling next to his victim, stabbed the man repeatedly. When he was satisfied that his victim was dead, he looked up at Pantoleon, who had not moved a muscle.

  “That was close,” Gabros said calmly. “You need to stay awake, Senator boy.” He wiped the blade of his wicked looking knife on the dead man’s thigh and stood up. Eyeing the accoutrements of the two men he said, “Good. Now we are well armed and well mounted, but first we shall eat.”

  “Were these two following us from the village?” Pantoleon asked. He was still shaken.

  “No doubt about it, but we are in the province of Kibyrrhaiotai, which, the last time I checked, still belongs to the emperor. We’ve crossed the hardest part of mountains, and it’s mostly down hill now. If we can make it to the coast we will be safe.”

  He produced a hare, which he proceeded to gut and cook over an almost smokeless fire. By the time they were finished there was very little left of the creature, and it was dusk. Pantoleon’s crotch felt as though it was on fire. He went to the stream and washed carefully, but the area was red, swollen, and it was hard to urinate. He felt hot. With a sinking feeling in his gut he described the wound to Gabros, who nodded. “I was wondering when this would happen. We need to find some of our own people and get that seen to. We’ll move on in the morning; meanwhile, get some rest.”

  While Pantoleon dozed in restless sleep Gabros went about the business of stripping the two unwelcome visitors and taking an inventory of their weapons and possessions. He muttered something when he came across a handful of gold teeth in a hide pouch. These two men had been at Myriokephalon. No Turk possessed gold teeth... in his mouth.

  The next morning found them on new ponies leading the best of the other ponies, two of which they had left behind. Pantoleon was feeling ill, but he clenched his teeth and endured the painful ride. They were well armed with bows and could hold off a few enemy should any more come after them at this late stage. Gabros hoped to meet up with a patrol of soldiers from Attalia, although he was not sure how far away it was.

  They crested a high rise at about noon and Gabros gave a call back to Pantoleon. “The sea! It’s the sea!” He glanced back and noticed that Pantoleon was swaying in the saddle.

  “Hang on there, Senator boy! We are nearly there,” he called.

  Just as he did so he heard a shout from off to his left. A patrol of soldiers was galloping towards them. They looked determined and ready for trouble, so he rode back to join Pantoleon and waited. Within minutes they were surrounded by grim looking men who seemed on the edge of killing them with no questions asked.

  “Hold up there!” Gabros shouted for all to hear. “We are soldiers who have come from Myriokephalon! Do not harm us.”

  There were exclamations of surprise. “Who are you? You look more like Turks than Greeks,” the commander of the patrol demanded, his tone loud and aggressive.

  “We borrowed these things,” Gabros stated with a disarming grin. “You are looking at two who managed to get away,” he chuckled. “We survived but were taken prisoner and then escaped. Listen,” he pointed to Pantoleon, “he’s in a very bad way. Needs a physician urgently. His name is Exazenos.”

  When the patrol had overcome their shock at seeing Pantoleon’s burns and head wounds they immediately made a travois and laid him on it. By this time he had a fever and was barely conscious.

  While they were doing this, Gabros had a quiet word with the commander. “I would much appreciate it if this was kept very quiet,” he said. “Exazenos is a very wealthy man in his own right, and I know he will reward you extremely well if you do this for him. You see... his injuries are more than just those burns and the gash on his head.”

  The commander stared at the recumbent figure on the travois and then looked up at Gabros with wide eyes. “We had heard something terrible that was done. Was he...? Is he...?”

  Gabros put his finger to his lips and nodded.

  “Ill news always travels faster than the wind,” the young commander said, his voice full of sympathy now. “Rest easy, I shall swear the physician to secrecy. We must get him there before his condition gets worse.”

  Pantoleon spent four days in a fevered coma, while Gabros and the physician who had been found tended to him. He woke on the fifth morning feeling a lot better but very weak, and from that day forth he began to recover—physically. Inside, however, he was damaged, and while Gabros understood this he didn’t discuss it with him.

  Gabros explained the reason for the new name, and Pantoleon nodded his head in agreement. “Better to remain with this name,” he said. Some instinct told him it would be wise to do so; besides, he was so appalled at the image he saw in the polished bronze mirror that he shuddered. He certainly did not want any of his former companions to see him like this and despise him, or worse, pity him. “We will go back to Constantinople and pick up the pieces when we get there,” he told Gabros. “What are you going to do? I owe you my life several times over but cannot repay you until we get home.”

  Gabros looked uncertain. “If you wish to take me into your employment, I would be happy enough about that,” he said.

  Pantoleon looked at the man, remembering his resourcefulness and speed with weapons. A very useful man to have at his back. “Willingly,” he stated. “You stay with me, and I shall
be glad of it.”

  But disaster awaited them. When they eventually made their way back to the city, Pantoleon made a terrible discovery. His father, Senator John Spartenos, and his mother Constance were dead, their property confiscated. His father had been proscribed as a traitor after a failed attempt to depose Emperor Manuel, and all his properties were forfeit. The revolt of the Senators had been in reaction to the debacle of Myriokephalon, as many of the Families had lost sons, heirs, servants and much of their wealth in that gorge where Pantoleon had almost died. He had come back to find his disgraced and dishonored family officially no longer existed, because he was thought to be dead.

  The discovery shocked him profoundly. He had slipped into the city on a Cypriot ship that docked at Neorion harbor, so no one was aware of his presence. He was now very glad of the new name given to him by Gabros. No one recognized him, but he could not stay in the city for much longer for fear of discovery. He did, however, make enquiries with Gabros’ help that revealed the manner in which his parents had died and what had happened to much of their possessions.

  The house had been burned to the ground, leaving a black smear in the hectare of green land surrounding it. Staring around him at the devastation and the weed-grown stables and out houses, he raged anew. The final humiliation had been when the name of a certain Frank, Talon de Gilles, surfaced as having some responsibility for the destruction of his father. Pantoleon, like all Greeks, disliked and distrusted the Latins and the Franks, but as far as he was concerned the family Kalothesos bore the main responsibility for his family’s downfall. Their elder daughter had betrayed his father, and that was enough. Pantoleon cared not one whit that his father had not only been part of a plot to dethrone the emperor Manuel but had done a deal to sell out the one weapon the Byzantines possessed that could keep their enemies at bay—Greek Fire.