by Tony Roberts
The three men edged away from the gun-toting man and watched as he began to climb the ladder. They turned and began running for the stairs, yelling at the top of their voices. Casca climbed up, swung the hatch shut and ran across the roof to the helipad. The blades were already turning as Hayley flicked switches here and there and had headphones on, looking the part of a pilot, which indeed she was.
Danny had the chopper door open and helped Casca in. He slid it shut. Casca checked Goldman who was lying on the bench along one fuselage wall, then peered over the seats of the cockpit. “Let’s go, Hayley.”
“Where to, Carlos?” she asked.
“South. Mexico. Out of U.S. airspace. Then we can plan what to do next.”
“Quite like Taco Bells,” Hayley commented as she gripped the cyclic with her left hand and reached back with her right to turn the master control knob of the AN/APX-100 Transponder off. “That’ll take care of any prying eyes,” she said as she returned her hand to the controls. The chopper lurched up and she banked it hard and hugged the edge of the mountain. Casca looked over her shoulder through the windshield and thought he saw figures gesticulating, but he could have imagined it.
Casca clapped her on the shoulder and returned to Goldman’s side. The ageing man was sleeping easily enough. “Looks like they drugged him,” Danny commented.
“Yup,” Casca nodded. “We got some journey tonight. Might be awhile before the good doctor here wakes.”
“So what now? I mean, we can’t return to New York or Boston, can we?”
“We’ll see,” Casca said. “Once the Brotherhood’s role in all this is known, I guess the government will want to hush it all up and close down this little organization. Your CD helped wipe out all records, so Hayley and I have never been members of the Castle’s group. Nobody will link you or us to the attack, and the Brotherhood ain’t gonna tell them, are they? What can they say?”
Danny had to concede the point. He sat against the fuselage, alongside Goldman. “So what are we going to do to pass the time?”
Casca sat down heavily. “Suppose I tell you one of my tales.”
Danny grinned. “Hoped you say that. What about her?” he jerked his thumb forward.
“She can’t hear us with that David Clark headset on; besides she’ll be too busy piloting to care. So,” Casca leaned back, and thought for a moment. “Let me tell you of the First Crusade.”
“You were there?”
Casca nodded. “Uh-huh. Came just after my adventure with the assassins. The good doctor here would have told you that one, I guess.”
“Oh yes. The Old Man of the Mountain, Omar Khayyam, Bu Ali and that hot chick in the wagon.”
Casca laughed. “Oh yes, Miriam. What a woman! Red haired, green-eyed.” Both men turned their heads to look at the back of Hayley’s. Casca grunted. “Don’t distract me. Let me take you back to the summer of 1096 when I was in Constantinople.”
Casca began to describe the great city at the crossroads of the world, and Danny felt himself being dragged into another world, a world long gone, a world of sun baked houses, churches, and a huge palace on a sloped terraced parkland. Casca’s voice bore into his mind, telling him this was the palace of the emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, the Emperor Alexius Comnenus.
And Casca was there with the very man.
CHAPTER TWO
Alexius Comnenus, Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, sat on the terrace of his palace, the Bucoleon, and studied the man standing before him. Directly behind the emperor stood two large axe-bearing guards, members of the famed Varangian Guard. Alexius was not a tall man, something someone would have expected of the man who ruled the Empire, but he possessed an intensity and forceful nature that made people listen to him.
Casca listened to him. He’d listened to him many times in the past. He had had remained serving the Empire for many years, purely because he believed in this man. He’d only left six years ago or so following a difficult experience with a superior officer, and a nagging feeling it was time to go. He’d served under Alexius for eighteen or so years, and even the emperor had begun to look at Casca oddly. Why didn’t he age? Alexius was graying; even his famed long black beard was flecked with gray these days.
The man still looked strong, but Casca wondered how much longer the strain and stress of trying to keep the empire together would be handled as well as it had been.
Casca stood waiting for the emperor to speak. He’d seen a fair few familiar faces after getting to Constantinople and one of them had asked whether he was interested in his old job; it seemed his replacements hadn’t been up to the task and the emperor had often wished aloud that Casca hadn’t left.
So a quick word to the right people and before he knew it he’d been summoned to the Bucoleon. It wasn’t a bad location; as far as palaces went, it wasn’t the usual huge monolithic construction. Rather, it was a series of buildings set on the eastern slope of the hill that ran down from the city to the sea walls that bounded the Sea of Marmara. It had a fantastic view, looking out over the narrow stretch of water that separated Europe from Asia, and on an evening like this, with the warm July air being cooled slightly by the wind from the sea, it was a very pleasant place to be.
Or, rather, it would be. Casca didn’t feel comfortable at the moment. Alexius was still regarding him intently. What would he say? Hail and well met, old friend? Ha, you deserter, I’ll have your balls? What are you doing back here, you faithless dog? Glad to see you, let’s get planning on slaughtering more Turks? Who knew what was in the mind of emperors?
“Strategos Longinus,” Alexius finally said, giving him his old title he’d held the last time he had been in Alexius’ service. “I have a good mind to clap you in irons and exile you to some far-flung province of the Empire.” His beard twitched. “However, as the Empire no longer has any far-flung outposts, I cannot do as such.”
Casca smiled faintly. Alexius had a wicked sense of humor. Not something mere mortals should know about God’s chosen Vice-Regent on Earth, but having spent all those years campaigning alongside him when he had been a general, then under him after his elevation to emperor, Casca had gotten to know the man fairly well. He was a damned good general and administrator, someone the Empire needed badly as emperor in these troubled times.
“I am therefore lost as to what to do with you, Strategos. Would you like to suggest a course of action to assist me in this onerous duty?”
Casca bowed low, one knee on the ground. “Sire, I respectfully apply to my former position in your administration.”
“Hmmm,” Alexius pondered, stroking his long beard. “Sit down, please Strategos, while I consider your application.” He sipped a glass of spring water as Casca seated himself opposite, his chair lower than that of the emperor’s. The Varangian Guardsmen remained still, watching Casca intently. They knew who he was, having served under him in years gone by, but they would remove his head all the same with one word from Alexius. In the background the courtiers hovered, waiting on their master’s words. Casca distrusted them; he had a soldier’s aversion to bureaucrats and scheming manipulators who stood behind their ruler and whispered words of corruption into their ears. Perhaps it was his experience at the hands of Rasheed and Shapur II in Persia all those centuries ago.
“I do appear to have addressed you by your old rank, Strategos, did I not?” Alexius said, peering at Casca with a twinkle in his eye.
“Sire, you did indeed.”
“Therefore it would seem I have already made the decision in my mind. Or maybe God himself placed it there, giving me a sign.” He nodded and glanced at the courtiers, nodding once more. This set off a session of furious scribbling on slates. Casca’s return to imperial pay was being noted. Who was to argue against the workings of the divine being? People were executed for much less. Alexius chuckled. “Welcome back, Strategos. Please, tell me, what have you been doing these past few years?”
Casca relaxed. He retold his story of being captured by the Ara
b slaver and his experience at the hands of the assassins. Alexius scowled. Casca then told of the escape thanks to the Jewish agent and his return to imperial territory. It had taken far longer to get back now the Turks ruled most of Anatolia.
“Indeed they do,” Alexius said. He looked over the glittering waters down the hill. “They sit over there within sight of my walls and palace. An abomination. But things may change very soon.”
“Oh?” Casca was intrigued. The time since he’d joined Alexius’ service had been one battle after another trying to keep things together in the face of civil revolts and foreign advances. The spectacular imperial collapse since Manzikert twenty-five years ago had resulted in a shriveled Empire shorn of most of its manpower and money. There weren’t the resources around anymore to drive the Turks back. “Some new weapon, perhaps, sire?”
“No,” Alexius sighed. “Maybe I’m exchanging one problem for another. You remember my call for help from the West? A plea for mercenary troops to assist us in saving Christendom against the infidel Muslims?”
Casca nodded. “I thought you were doing a deal with the devil there, sire.”
“So it would appear to have turned out. The Pope has exceeded my expectations. Instead of encouraging the few kings or the Emperor of Rome,” Alexius’ voice hardened at the title, it still irritated him, “to send a company or two to help, he’d called for a wholesale invasion to drive the Turks back and to retake Jerusalem for Christianity!”
Casca sat up straighter. “An invasion? By whom, sire?”
Alexius pulled his lips into an ironic smile for a moment. “My actions have possibly brought more hardship to my people. My agents tell me a number of armies are on the march through Europe, all heading towards this city.”
Casca sat stunned. This was incredible. “You mean – thousands of men?”
“Tens of thousands. Four – five – maybe even six separate armies!”
“But – who’s feeding them? Where are they going to camp and rest? How are they going to get across the Bosporus out there?” Casca waved an arm at the glittering waters lying below them. He took a deep breath. “Who’s commanding them? Who are these soldiers? Are they under the Pope’s orders?”
Alexius shook his head. “The Pope released these dogs but they are under the command of various nobles of France, Italy and the Flemish lands.”
“Mercenaries?”
“Not as far as we know,” Alexius sighed. “But you know how quickly they can desert to someone who pays them more. They are apparently on what is being called a Crusade. They will receive absolution from their sins if they fight the infidel and retake the Holy Land in the name of the Cross.”
Casca regarded the emperor for a moment. “The Pope of course, you mean.”
Alexius chuckled. “You understand it all too well, Strategos. I missed your quick understanding of strategy. Your return is indeed the work of God; you know these westerners more than anyone I know, and speak their language. At such a moment I would need someone of your skill and ability, and here you suddenly appear. It is the work of the divine.”
Casca looked away. People were all too willing to put things down to the work of God. He was hungry, out of work and needed a job and money. Constantinople was the best place he could think of for both. God had nothing to do with it. “So who are these great warlords leading these armies?”
Alexius clicked his fingers and one of the courtiers came forward, a long scroll in his hands. He bowed and passed the emperor the document. Alexius nodded his thanks and examined it. “The first two seem to be nothing but common rabble; no noble leads these groups. They are undisciplined and poorly armed. The Turks would destroy them without any trouble. Someone called Peter the Hermit has raised one group from Germany. Another ‘holy man’ by the name of Walter leads the other. Both are expected here any day. My Pecheneg mercenaries are shadowing them.”
Casca chuckled. The Pecheneg were pitiless nomadic tribesmen from Asia who had been defeated by Alexius and Casca in the recent past and their survivors had been pressed into imperial service, to which they had taken with great enthusiasm. They weren’t people to cross. It had taken an immense and bloody battle to bring them to heel.
The emperor grinned in remembrance. “The nobility of Europe are busy putting their domestic affairs in order but they are raising armies in their homelands. Let me see…… Godfrey of Bouillon. He’s from northern France and the Flemish lands, yes?”
“Bouillon, yes. It’s a place in the eastern lands of the Franks. Tough men, good mercenaries. They’ll need controlling. Have they set out yet?”
Alexius shook his head. “Thankfully not yet. Also there’s a Raymond of Toulouse gathering a force in southern France. He’s quite a high-ranking nobleman.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Casca commented. “Proud, honorable but not someone you’d like to have against you. Who else, sire?”
“Hugh de Vermandois.”
“Don’t know him, sire. French, I assume?”
“Indeed.” Alexius held Casca’s gaze.
Casca had a funny feeling in his guts. “There’s someone else, isn’t there, sire?”
Alexius nodded, a wicked look in his face. “Bohemond.”
“Oh, dear God.” Casca sat and absorbed the unwelcome news. Of all the leaders Alexius had mentioned, Bohemond was the one they feared the most. A Norman warlord from the southern regions of Italy, he was a giant of a man, both physically and by reputation. Alexius and Casca had battled with Bohemond and his father, Robert Guiscard, many years before, and the scars of that defeat still ran deep in Casca’s bones. The sight of the elite Varangian Guard being burned to cinders in that church by Dyrrachium was what nightmares were made of.
Further defeats at the hand of Bohemond had come after Dyrrachium and it had seemed for a while the Norman leaders had the empire on its knees, but dogged persistence and luck had turned the war round and Alexius – and Casca – had emerged triumphant. But Bohemond had never forgotten and they both knew he was itching to get back at them, for his long dead father Guiscard had told him the throne of the Empire was his for the taking.
“His intention is to pass through our lands, yes?” Casca asked, mulling over the implications.
“His avowed intentions, yes,” Alexius nodded. “But what of his true plans?”
“Sire, perhaps you can advise me just how far your rule actually extends these days; boundaries and borders change with such suddenness that someone like me who has been away for, what, six years, loses touch so easily.”
The emperor looked across the Bosporus into Asia. “Not very far in that direction; the Turks control most of Anatolia these days. As you know, the countryside is full of refugees who fled from the Muslims when the towns and cities fell.”
“Or were handed over to them in return for help in the civil wars.”
Alexius sighed. It was a sore point but Casca had spoken the truth. The emperors and their rivals had repeatedly bought Turkish assistance to their side in the long and ruinous civil wars in order to prevail, and found that each time they had allowed Turks to garrison a town here and a city there, they stayed.
Casca thought it an incredibly stupid and short-sighted policy. When Alexius had finally come out on top and taken the throne, ending ten years of civil war, the Empire had lost nearly all its land in Asia. Some of it, yes, to invasion and conquest, but much of it had been handed to them on a plate.
“What’s done is done, sire.” Casca thought it best to change the subject. “And in Europe?”
“As far as the Danube, and up the coast as far as Dyrrachium. Serbia is in revolt and declared independence.”
Casca mused on that. “And the islands, sire?”
“We still hold Cyprus and Crete, as well as nearly all the smaller islands in the Aegean. But the same old problem of manpower persists,” the emperor sighed. “We need soldiers, and mercenaries cost money. Money we do not have to spend.”
Casca drummed his fingers on t
he table that stood between them. “If Bohemond or any of the other army leaders decide to attack us we’ll be hard-pressed to fight them off.”
“That is so, but they are supposedly on Crusade, or that’s what they say, against the Turk. Their Holy War is to free Jerusalem from Muslim rule. But to do that they must battle through Anatolia and the Taurus, and then Syria. All of it is either under Turkish control or prone to Turkish raids. They have no concept of warfare here. They have no knowledge of the terrain, the weather, the roads, the towns, the people. They may well end up destroying everything or being destroyed themselves.”
Casca grunted and looked at the darkening sky. It seemed so deceptively peaceful, seated there above the Bosporus, talking softly with the Emperor of the Romans, with the scent of honeysuckle in the air. He felt old. This was the remnant of the old Roman Empire of his youth, and something of a link to his past. It was only here in the lands of the emperors of Constantinople that he felt at home, wherever home truly was. He would fight to preserve it, not because he believed the Greek empire – for that was what it really was now – was the right one to fight for, but because it was his last link to his past. If it fell, he knew something within him would die. “Sire, one thing bothers me still.”
“Which is?”
“My old commander, the Palace Sebostrocrator. Nikephorus Limates. Is he still in his post?”
Alexius chuckled. “I know of the trouble between the two of you, and why you did leave your position. Desertion is not taken lightly, Strategos. But rest assured, Nikephorus is no longer here. He began to intrigue against me and I had little option but to imprison him. He met with an – accident. Regrettable.”