by Tony Roberts
“Where did I leave off last time?” he asked Danny and Hayley.
Hayley smiled and leaned forward, her chin resting on her fist. Carlos thought not for the first time that she had a pair of the most spellbinding green eyes he’d ever seen, and he’d seen plenty in his time. Hayley Landries, married to Danny, had once been a Special Ops chopper pilot with Carlos until the Brotherhood had infiltrated the unit and ordered the pair terminated. Hayley had promptly left the unit and ever since then had been helping keep Carlos as anonymous as possible. She had also fallen in love with Danny and the pair had married the previous year.
“World War Two – Operation Barbarossa,” she said.
Carlos nodded in recollection. He waited until his companions had finished their drinks, paid the waiter and stood up. “I have a room in a hotel not far from here. We can walk.”
The three strolled in the weak sunshine and remarked on Brussels’ changing face. A great ring road was being built, disrupting traffic but due for completion the following year. Within ten minutes they arrived at a modest hotel and went up to Casey’s room, a small cramped one bed room with a chair, a table and a rickety cupboard.
“You sleep here?” Danny said in surprise.
“I am broke,” Casey shrugged, “but I have a meeting this evening with a rich Arab who wants my expertise. This is why I asked for our meeting first. I may be out of Europe for some time. Now”, he sat on the chair and the other two switched on the recording device and sat on the bed, “after my time returning from China with Marco Polo to Venice – you might recall that story in the dim and distant past – I went to Scotland….but I’ll tell you about that another time. Suffice to say I ended up a fugitive from there and became an archer with the English. They got into some war with the French – they always did! - and then they captured the French king. After the capture of the French king, the war seemed over, so I quit the English army, took what money I had and walked south east towards the Mediterranean. There I embarked on a ship bound for Thessalonika and made my way to Adrianople where I joined the Byzantine army, little realizing just how weak they were. The Turks simply destroyed them and Adrianople was lost, so I made my way to Constantinople and became involved in one of the most important missions I ever had, at the very request of the emperor himself.”
The two Americans felt themselves being sucked into the past, the room and the present being thrown back out of the reach of their consciousness. Images rushed past their view and they seemed to be flying over water, a long expanse of unbroken sea, then a long, low plain flew towards them and they rushed over the long swaying grasses, the wind rushing past their ears, flying lower and lower, until a lone horseman appeared in the distance, riding easily. Without being told they knew this rider to be Casca. Into their minds came Casca’s voice, and they felt themselves joining the mind and body of the rider until they were both part of Casca, riding free and alone across the great Steppes of Southern Russia, the domain of the Mongol Golden Horde, founded by Batu after the Mongol successes in Russia, Poland and Hungary over a century before. He knew he had a mission to perform, a mission that might yet save the Byzantine Empire from destruction. He knew there was little time for him to waste, for the Turks were growing stronger with every passing day, until they might become too much for the Empire to withstand.
Yet it was a mission born of desperation and could so easily fail.
CHAPTER TWO
Casca reined in his mount, a small steppe pony, and allowed it rest. He had been on the move ever since the Greek Emperor has sent him on his way by sea from Constantinople, disembarking from the Genoese ship in Azov the previous day. His horse, although strong, desperately needed rest – and probably a belly full of good quality grass.
He dismounted and led the horse to the wide flowing river to his left, the Don. The river would be his guide in his journey north east until it turned north, then he would have to cross the steppe until he reached the other great river of that part of the world, the Volga. As he allowed his mount to drink, he caught sight of his own reflection in the water and smiled. He wore on his head a tall felt cap of red trimmed with sable fur of white, and over his body was a long robe of light blue with dark blue curved designs, reaching to his calves. Long boots of brown leather completed the outfit, giving off the appearance of an Asiatic nomad, the perfect cover for his presence in this part of the lands of the Mongols.
Hanging from a thin leather belt around his middle was a curved sword resting in a scabbard and across his lower back lay a short composite bow and arrows. This was the dress of a Cuman, a race of nomads the Empire used as mercenaries. Under his robe he wore a leather set of breeches and a woolen jacket, and against his chest rested a flat piece of parchment enveloped in vellum so as to protect it. It had been given to him in Constantinople in that extraordinary meeting with the Emperor, John V. He still could hardly believe it, yet when he cast his mind the week or so back the memories were very vivid.
____
The Blachernae Palace was a sumptuous place, adorned with all the riches to be expected in the abode of the Emperor of one of the greatest empires the world had ever known. Gold and gilt dominated, dazzling in the sunlight and reflecting the flickering flames of torches. Icons were to be seen everywhere, beautiful representations of Christ, the Virgin or one of the many saints of the Christian church.
Tapestries hung from walls or ceilings and wonderfully attired courtiers wandered serenely through the long corridors of the palace. Casca had been directed to a reception room where his presence was accounted for and noted, before he had been given quarters in order to change clothes. He also managed the luxury of a bath before he was summoned by a eunuch slave.
He was led to an antechamber and once again met up with the Greek officer who had greeted him by the walls. He introduced himself as Niklas Zaklous and prepared him before they met the emperor. “He must be greeted properly as custom dictates by bowing low. Do not rise until he has commanded so.”
Casca nodded, knowing full well the procedure, having served many emperors before. They then walked through a doorway and along a short but guarded corridor before coming to a halt by a pair of stout looking doors adorned with golden handles. Two burly Varangian Guards stood in their way, axes crossed, their English features very evident, and to one side, behind a small but fragile looking table stood a domestic, a long robed civil servant whose face was dominated by a red beak of a nose jutting out from a white beard.
“We wait until summoned” Niklas commented.
Casca nodded and examined the guards. He walked up to them, grinning. “Long way from home, lads” he said.
The two guards stared at him in shock. “Bloody hell, one of our lot” the one to the left replied. “Where are you from then?”
Casca thought back to when he had last been in the British Isles. “Monmouth. What about you?”
The two guards eyed one another. “You a Taffy, then?”
“Sort of. Longbowman in the Black Prince’s army. Gave the Frogs one hell of a beating.”
The two guards chortled. “Bloody good fer you, Taff. No sod can face a crowd of you Welshy bowmen. How is the old land then?”
“Oh, same as normal, at least it was when I was last there before the Plague hit it. Taxes up, nobility walking round like they own the place.”
The one on the right grimaced. “They do.”
Casca snorted. “There’s a shortage of land workers now, and they are desperate for labor. The peasants have got much more freedom to choose where they go, and demand higher wages! The nobility don’t like it one bit.”
Niklas came up and nudged Casca. “Don’t distract the guards. It’s not proper court procedure.”
The mercenary shrugged an apology to the two guards who grinned knowingly. The Greeks probably couldn’t understand a word and felt uncomfortable as a result. After a moment the door opened from the other side and a court official, wearing an ornate ankle length dark blue gown, embroidered wi
th gold thread, appeared. On his head he wore a rounded high hat of gold and red felt, and around his ample middle ran a thin corded gold and tan belt.
He regarded the two waiting men through heavy lidded eyes and his thin lips curled with disdain at having to greet people of lower social rank than he. His beard was white but his moustache was still dark brown. “You will follow me” he said, the tone in his voice placing them somewhere between the gutter and servitude.
Casca rolled his eyes at the two guards who made a supreme effort to keep a straight face. As they passed through the doors one winked an eye for good luck. The mercenary grinned briefly then stepped into the throne room to come face to face with the Emperor.
CHAPTER THREE
John V Palaeologus was a dark complexioned, serious looking man who sat uneasily on his throne. Although God’s chosen one on earth he found God’s task for him very formidable. His empire was shrinking and he feared he may reside over the death of it. He stared at the two men standing before him through brown eyes, one hand resting against his dark brown beard. He had heard the two being introduced and the reasons why they were here, so he had given them permission to stand.
“Casca Longini?” he said slowly, appraising the mercenary standing in front of the five steps that led to the platform in the center of the throne room. “A Frank with knowledge of the Mongol tongue?”
“My lord,” Casca replied, “I am not of Francia. I am known by another name amongst the Franks. I merely adapt it to suit the lands in which I may be at a given time.”
John looked surprised. “Many Franks are proud of their names and indeed flaunt them in front of Easterners.”
“I am no Frank, my lord, merely a man whose abilities take me from one campaign to another. What is a name but a descriptive title? Many Byzantine princesses have had their names changed to suit the Empire in the past.”
John acknowledged this with a smile and a slight nod. “A man who changes identity with each new place he visits. This may be the one who we have been looking for,” he said to the pompous court official who had taken up a place by the emperor’s side.
The official looked doubtful but said nothing.
“Go and wait in the next chamber and we shall shortly be with you.” He waved to a guard to show the two men through a side door that led to a small but comfortable room furnished with a polished marble table and velvet-backed chairs.
They didn’t have to wait long before the emperor and three men arrived. One was the haughty official while the others were military men of high rank.
“My generals Andronikos and Georgios” he indicated to the two soldiers, “Megas Doux Charalamdous” he nodded towards the official. Casca eyed the ornately dressed man much closer this time. So this was Niklas’ superior.
They all sat and papers were spread on the marble top. “For the past few years the Empire has been at the mercy of its neighbors, thanks to a civil war. Thankfully, our neighbors have been too weak or quarrelsome with each other to take too much of an advantage, and we have survived. However, recently the Turks have grown in strength to become, in virtually no time, the masters of the area. They are growing stronger day by day and in time may be too numerous and powerful for even our land walls to resist.”
He paused to gauge the reaction of those present. “We have, therefore, decided to seek a power strong enough to destroy the Turks and thus prevent them from swallowing up our sacred city. We do not trust our Christian neighbors to the west, for they have long harbored designs on this city and we would be swapping an Islamic threat for a Catholic one.”
He looked to see the Greeks nodding with assent. Casca knew this to be true also.
“Therefore we must look eastwards. The Ottoman Turks are stronger than the other Turkish emirates in Anatolia and we would not expect help from another Muslim power. What we need is a power far enough away not to have any territorial designs on us but close enough to see the Turks as a possible future threat. We therefore have decided to ask the Mongols for help.”
Casca expected this. He wouldn’t have been asked if he could speak the language if they weren’t to be involved in some manner or another. He was as a result ready for this. “May I speak, lord?” he asked.
John bowed once.
“My lord, the Mongols are not the power they once were, for they are divided into mutually hostile khanates. They do not have a great leader who can unite them anymore. Their empire has even vanished from Persia and Khorasan.”
Charalamdous leaned forward. “You seem very well informed for a Westerner” he sneered, “and how is it you can speak Mongol anyway?”
“The same way I can speak Greek. I learn quickly and am not handicapped by prejudice or pompous pride.” He shot the official a sharp look. “I was fortunate to meet a Mongol a few years back who had wandered westwards, and we spent some time together learning each other’s customs and language and history.” The last not strictly true but he could hardly have told them he had served in the Mongol armies a century and a half ago.
Charalamdous leaned back, his arms folded. He clearly was not satisfied but let it go.
Casca continued. “What is left is not worth the effort. The Yuan in China are too far away to help and they would not be interested, neither would the Chagadai Khanate north of the Himalayas. That leaves the Golden Horde to our north. They have adopted Islam.”
John smiled knowingly. “Yes, but only superficially. They are still Mongol at heart. A few years ago they attacked Kaffa along the north coast of the Black Sea which belonged to Genoa.” He frowned. “They deliberately catapulted diseased corpses from their own army over the city walls to infect the populace. From there the sailors carried this plague to Constantinople, and from here it spread to the rest of Europe.”
“It is known in the West as the Black Death” Casca said quietly. “I wondered where it had come from.”
“You can thank your Mongol friends for that” John said bitterly, “it cost the Empire a third of its population. So you see, they are still Mongol at heart! Savages, barbarians! They care not for religion, just for war.” The emperor gripped the table for a moment, his anger at the Mongols’ use of disease all too evident. He took a deep breath and straightened. “I have therefore written a letter to be delivered to the Khan of the Golden Horde, informing him of the growing power of the Turks and of the helplessness of the states around them. I have sent him this message in the hope he will send an army through the Caucasus into Anatolia to crush these Turks once and for all.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but a Mongol Khan would not come merely for a letter.”
The Emperor nodded. “That is so. I have enclosed a gift for him, a paper thin gold leaf picture of God and the Apostles which you shall carry under your clothing and will not let out of your sight for a moment. There is also mention of further gifts if the Khan agrees to help. I understand that messengers are given special status in Mongol eyes?”
“Yes, my lord, their law, the Jasa, protects messengers.” Casca knew the Jasa fairly well, having been around in its inception.
John stood up as did the others. “May the blessings of God and this Empire go with you then. Do not delay, for the future of Byzantium may well rest in your hands. Now go, the Stratopedarch will advise you further.” He indicated to Charalamdous to hand over the wrapped message and gift to Casca. “If you return successfully you may well gain great rewards here.”
Casca bowed low once, then followed Niklas back out, thinking his mission was little short of a desperate and suicidal gamble.
CHAPTER FOUR
He sat back on the banks of the Don and looked about. The well-travelled road close by was empty, but that was no surprise. The land hereabouts was so vast that a whole army in it could be hidden without really trying. It was mainly flat steppe and bereft of trees, but oddly many things could be concealed in its endless horizons. A few birds of prey circled in the sky, probably watching some creature beneath them, and a fox trotted past some hu
ndred feet off to the left.
He had been given the Cuman clothing and horse by Niklas and a map as to where he was to go. A ship had taken him across the Black Sea a few days later to Azov, via Kaffa, which was still recovering from the effects of plague, and he’d ridden away from the small port without a moment’s pause. Under his saddlebag he carried a leather purse of gold coins, payment for his acceptance of the job, but he reckoned on using that for bribes one way or another. A lone traveler in such a wild land as this is soon parted from his money unless he was lucky or clever.
Or both.
He was to travel along the track to the capital of the Golden Horde, Berke-Sarai, where he was to bring the message and gift to the Khan himself. He was confident of doing that, given his Mongol experiences and knowledge of their customs; but after that what was he to do? He doubted he would be well received back in Constantinople with a negative response. Besides, it looked as though the Byzantine Empire was going to be finished off soon, and he had no intention of being in a doomed city when it fell. He considered Spain, where a constant war was going on between Christian Castile and Muslim Granada. There must be employment there for him.
Rested, he went back over to his grazing pony and took hold of the reins. He un-hobbled it and mounted the saddle. The beast showed irritation at being taken away from such a prime grazing area by the river but Casca had no time for that. He swung the animal around to face north-east before settling once more into a comfortable walk