Rogue Sword

by Poul Anderson

  It was spoken heedlessly, and at once he wished it unsaid. But before he could beg forgiveness, the tensed muscles seemed to melt. A smile as warm as any he had ever had from her quivered forth upon the full, softening lips. She sat up, but slowly and meaningfully, throwing back her loosened hair with a motion that lifted her breasts toward him.

  “Your pardon,” she breathed. “I didn’t understand. I, too, was on edge. Of course we’ll do as you wish.” Confused, about himself as much as about her, and trying to cover the fact, he turned his back and poured out the wine.

  “I simply want to drop stiff garments and courtly manners for once,” he explained: “have a long drink and be nothing except myself.”

  “I hope you aren’t too weary,” she insinuated.

  He slipped off his doublet and shoes. When he brought back the goblets, Violante had thrown a robe over her nakedness, but it was loosely sashed. She accepted a glass, regarded him above the edge, and lowered it untasted. She was not without perception.

  “You are in a fret,” she said. “Sit down. Tell me. Has there been trouble with those Genoese?”

  “More than trouble.” He let himself into a chair and drank deep of his own wine. Violante came around behind him and brushed his chestnut hair with her hands.

  “I fear there’s going to be a hard battle,” he said. “Again? Are any left who dare stand against the Grand Company?”

  “But the Company isn’t here.”

  Her sleeking fingers paused, then resumed. “Tell me the whole story,” she said in a man’s brisk tone. “From the beginning. I knew En Ramon was treating with some insolent Genoese, but paid no heed.”

  “That’s all I told you, for it seemed unimportant at first. Yesterday’s talking revealed what an ominous turn this is, but I stayed so late at the conference of our captains--I being the record keeper--that you were asleep when I returned. Today--”

  Violante began massaging his neck. He took another large draught, leaned back a trifle more at ease, and said: “Now we’ve learned that full eighteen Genoese galleys under Ser Antonio Spinola reached Constantinople on a mission of state not long ago. Great ships, each holding over a hundred fighting men. Hearing that our force is not in Gallipoli, Spinola got splendid terms from the Emperor if he can take this city.

  “So he came here in two ships and defied us.” Lucas grinned. Wine and the woman’s hands were soothing him, restoring his humor. “I must say his challenge was a resounding one. He commanded us and told us, in the name of the Commune of Genoa, to get out of their garden, meaning the Empire of Constantinople, which was the garden of the Commune of Genoa; otherwise if we did not get out, that he defied us in the name of the Commune of Genoa and of all the Genoese in the world. Our answer was a soft one, but he repeated his demand and we repeated our refusal, and so it went back and forth, with all the formalities, public letters being delivered of each challenge and each reply.

  “Well, Spinola had our final word today. Old Muntaner told him--ah, you Hispanics!--we had come here in the name of God, and to exalt the Holy Catholic Faith; and required him in the name of the Holy Father, and in the names of the King of Aragon and the King of Sicily, to join us against that treacherous schismatic, the Emperor. If he would not help us, he must not hinder, or God would see that we were innocent of any bloodshed that might ensue, for we were only defending ourselves.”

  “Why are you laughing?” asked Violante, startled.

  “I could never explain to a Catalan,” said Lucas. “Spinola is now bound back,” he continued after a while. “He vowed to return with his full complement. They can get here well before Rocafort learns of our plight and sends help.”

  Her grasp tightened on him. “The more glory for us!”

  As if that arrogance were a magic formula, Lucas felt the wine take hold of him. His forebodings vanished. There were still a few days before anything happened. By all the demons of Tartary, he wouldn’t waste them in fear! The Grand Company was invincible! He emptied his glass, set it on the floor, and reached around to pull Violante down on his lap.

  “Lucas! What are you doing?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?”

  She frowned and resisted him. Her fond mood of a few minutes past was gone, overwhelmed by an ardor for war. “Not yet,” she muttered. “I want you to tell me about our battle plans, and--”

  He slipped a hand inside her robe. “Later. After the more important matters are off my mind.”

  “How dare you say such a thing?” He saw her temper kindling and said:

  “I dare say much. For instance, a sonnet in the Italian form.”

  “What?” Completely taken aback, she stopped resisting him.

  “For you, my lady. A poor tribute, but the best I could.”

  “Me? But . . . but no one ever--” Her blush could have been a maiden’s. “Oh, Lucas!”

  “In other times I played the troubadour,

  Or thought I did, like any lovesick youth,

  And for my lady’s sake let fancy soar

  On flashing-feathered wings above dull truth.

  By foam-born Venus foamily I swore

  That in my love of her was naught uncouth,

  But ’twas her heart and soul I did adore,

  Those beauties which we know defy time’s tooth.

  “The devil now may have such dreary bliss!

  Your mortal self is what has made me blest.

  Your shining eyes, deep riches of your hair,

  The springtime drunkenness within your kiss,

  The lovely upward surging of your breast,

  Soft skin, round hip, slim leg--these things are fair.”

  “Oh, my darling! You . . . you’ll have me weeping for joy--How can I please you? What would you have me do? Anything you desire!”

  The Catalan version made the eighth language in which he had rendered his poem. All translations had been equally successful.

  Chapter XII

  On a Saturday, about the hour of vespers, Lucas looked down at the Genoese fleet. He whistled. “Twenty-five of them, Micer! The Emperor must have added seven of his own to Spinola’s command.”

  “Seven or seven hundred, it’s as nothing in the sight of God,” said En Ramon Muntaner. But he squinted toward them with a soldier’s eye, observing and calculating.

  At this point, the seaward walls of Gallipoli rose above rugged slopes. Some distance off, the Catalans had followed their custom of erecting a barbacana, a lower wall, to serve as first line of defense and help cover any retreat. This was a wooden stockade, but strong and well designed, its top breast-high above a scaffolding where the defenders would stand. Beyond, the earth rolled on down to the beaches. The strait lay like burnished steel against brown Asiatic hills. The galleys came rowing to their selected anchorage: long, full-bellied craft, high in bow and stern, sails furled but pennons vivid at the mastheads. Their decks swarmed with men.

  “Might we send out fireships?” wondered an esquire.

  “My goose is talking,” snorted Lucas. “What wind have we? Let’s pray they don’t come in and burn our ships at dock.”

  “If they wish to do so, why, that’s where we’ll fight them,” said Muntaner. “But they’d scarcely be such fools. Our catapults and ballistae cover the harbor.” He slapped his hard horseman’s thigh. “Come, we’ve work to do.”

  The Genoese promptly began assembling ladders and siege engines for an assault. All that night they could be heard at work. Lanthorns hung in the rigging made their ships a faerie spectacle, firefly hosts on blackly glimmering waters, but Lucas was too busy to grow homesick for the festivals of Cambaluc. He must follow the governor from point to point, readying all defenses.

  Casks of wine and bowls of bread were set out in the streets, and whoever wished could eat from them, for the garrison could not spare men to keep a mess. Not only must extra weapons be stocked where they would be needed; physicians must also be put in readiness to aid the wounded, so these could return to battle at
once. The Genoese habit was to shoot ceaselessly with the crossbow, so every Catalan was ordered to wear a good cuirass. It was not proof against a quarrel fired close by, but would protect from bolts nearly spent. Of armor the city had no lack.

  Muntaner ordered the women into armor, each division in charge of a Catalan merchant, that they might guard the walls.

  Lucas snatched a little sleep before dawn. He was up in time to hear mass; there would not be much more religion on this Sabbath. Afterward he waited for Violante, who was to seek her own post atop a barbacana. The sky overhead was still dark and full of stars, but eastward it had paled and a dim sourceless light filled the streets. Violante’s tread rang loud on the cobblestones. She saw Lucas and ran to embrace him.

  “Behold me, my dearest!”

  Her hair was in tight black braids under a morion helmet. Cuirass, tasses, and greaves enclosed her, but the breeches showed what fullness lay within. She had a dagger at her belt, spear in one hand and light leather targe on the other arm. With flared nostrils, teeth gleaming between red wet lips, eyes afire, she could have been some heathen goddess of war.

  She crushed herself against him. He had not heard her voice so joyful, even at the heights of love. “Oh, Lucas, my father looks down from Heaven and sees me like this!”

  Then she hastened onward.

  In mail and pourpoint, Lucas mounted his best horse and went out the gates with En Ramon’s men. The animals whinnied and danced, sensing battle. Their riders sat calmly; but their eyes smoldered beneath the plumed helmets. The Almugavares shook their lances and set up a yell that the hills flung back. They looked no less savage with breastplates above their leather garments. The mariners tramped more stolidly, pikes rising and falling, bordon swords slapping booted legs. A breeze unfurled the banner of Aragon at the army’s head and the banner of St. Peter above the city.

  Trumpets blared, kettledrums banged, the Catalans marched forth.

  A Genoese galley was already being drawn into the shallows by two boats filled with armed sailors. When those were beached, the men would haul the ship inward till it grounded. “Desperta ferres! Aur! Aur!” The defenders rushed to stop them.

  Lucas saw an arbalestier stand up in the foresheets and take aim. From the corner of an eye, he saw Muntaner’s standard advance, streaming from the pole. He lowered his spear and urged his own horse into the water, which sheeted over his knees. For a ridiculous moment he was chiefly conscious of the water in his boots . . . the live rippling of muscle between his legs, the cropped mane and the ears that rose and fell in gallop, odors of horse and oiled metal. . . . Crossbow quarrels whizzed past on either side of him. The man at whom he aimed wore a leather doublet but an iron helmet. His face was fleshy, sunburnt, with a big nose, several days’ growth of beard ... an Italian face. . . . His mouth fell open, he screamed and tumbled backward. The lance caught him in the armpit.

  Lucas pulled the shaft free and wielded it against the oarsmen like a pike. Confusion churned around the boats. The sailors sprang overboard, weapons in hand. The water was chest high. They struggled shoreward, assailed by the horsemen. As they reached shallower water the Catalan foot attacked. Metal and wood rattled. Men splashed about, cursed, howled, moaned, and gurgled.

  Those Genoese who could swim retreated to the galley, which had cut loose and was hurriedly backing water. The rest were hewn down. The first full sunlight struck on corpses awash in red-streaked ripples. The Catalans cheered like wolves yelping.

  Several further attempts were made, each halted by Muntaner’s patrols. But about the hour of tierce, as he had known must happen, superior numbers overcame the advantage of ground. Two separate melees near the city occupied his entire band. Meanwhile, a few miles off, ten galleys snatched the opportunity.

  From the saddle, where he smote with a saber at men who stood in a wildly rocking shallop and hit back with oars, Lucas glimpsed the enemy landing. A ship grated on sand, anchors were dropped, a gangplank was lowered.

  Knights guided restive horses to the water and up onto the beach. Toylike under the cliffs, their surcoats and shields colorful splotches, they moved about planning their battle.

  A yell slashed through Lucas’ attention. He waded his horse back toward shore and tried to see what had happened. Muntaner’s standard had swayed above a turmoil on the strand. Now it was gone, the armored tower was gone, hostile mariners raged where Muntaner had been fighting.

  “The commander is killed!” Lucas heard the gleeful Genoese roar. They had also seen. “The commander is killed! At them!”

  He spurred up to the affray. Others were also converging on it. He saw a knight spit two sailors on a lance, break off the shaft, lay about with the stump as a club, and when it was in splinters draw a sword. He, himself, engaged a pikeman; they sparred until an Almugavare came from behind and stabbed the fellow. By that time the foe had been cleared from around En Ramon. He stood red-splashed, gasping, beside his mortally wounded charger. Blood ran from his own cuts; his left shoe squelched with blood.

  An esquire sprang to earth. “Take my horse, Micer!”

  Muntaner ignored them all and knelt by his fallen animal. Bewildered agony looked back at him. “Ah,” he breathed, “so, Orlando, my pet, so, so, my lad. Goodnight, and thanks.” His misericord flashed. The horse gave one jerk and lay still. Muntaner climbed painfully up on the other mount, took the esquire behind him, and rode off to have his hurts dressed.

  Lucas joined the re-forming Almugavares. They sat down on the beach and panted. Water bottles went from mouth to crack-lipped mouth. They could do nothing more to halt the Genoese landings. They could only resist the attack when it came.

  Spinola’s arrangements were complete. He made skillful use of his overwhelmingly greater numbers. One banner with half the crew issued from each galley. If any man in combat got tired or hungry or wounded, he returned and a counterpart--pikeman or crossbowman--took his place. Thus the assault was continuous, which rarely happened in war.

  The air grew dark with Genoese quarrels. Lucas’ ears were so full of their buzz that he ceased hearing them. Now and again, one would strike near him, otherwise he paid no heed. In all that shooting, however, no man outside was struck. When the Catalans had been driven back close to their fortress, they saw that some of the women on the barbacana had been hit, and a bolt had gone down a chimney, injuring a cook preparing fowls for the wounded. On the whole, though, the arbalestiers were useless: which somewhat lightened the odds against Aragon.

  But it was still a deadly strife. Pike thrust at shield and cuirass, seeking flesh. Sword smote until the edge was so dulled the weapon became a mere club. The long Almuga-vare knives leaped and probed. As the day progressed, men grew too weary and thirsty for battle cries. A strange stillness descended on the beach. The only noises were clatter and thud, grunt and gasp, a whimper of pain.

  Lucas fought with the light horse until his own steed was hamstrung. Then he was glad enough to get down among the mariners and wield his blade afoot. He had only acted as a jinete because cavalrymen were so few.

  The retreat was a foretaste of Hell. Long before it ended, he was stumbling, his lungs a dry fire, the sweat baked out of him. Yet the Catalan lines held firm. They entered their gates about nones in good order.

  That maneuver was covered by the women on the stockades. When their javelins and quarrels were expended, they fought with stones piled ready for them. Again and yet again, the Genoese outflanked the Catalans and raised ladders against the barbacana. They were met by shrieking female devils, who stabbed, hurled stones, poured kettles of scalding water, and overthrew the ladders.

  When the enemy withdrew to reorganize itself, Muntaner abandoned the outer defense. It had served its purpose. His folk took places atop Gallipoli’s own walls. Men and women intermingled; they fought beyond sundown. The Genoese made bonfires to illuminate the night, and continued to attack at widely scattered points until morning. Their hope was to break through the thin Catalan force, but each att
empt failed.

  Once past the gates, Lucas had a lengthy rest, for none of those assaults were made near his assigned post. Standing on a battlement in the dark, he took off his helmet and the quilted cap beneath, to let the breeze cool his head. The city was a mountainous gloom behind him, around him, below him, down toward the beach where watchfires picked out galleys like stranded whales. Other fires made red stars over the hills. Far off along the wall he saw torches bobbing, even thought he glimpsed steel as it whirred and hammered. But his ears were his chief source of information. Shouts, clangor, drums and trumpets, made a stirring music--at this distance.

  The half-seen woman beside him came closer. Her voice was triumphant: “Before God, this day has been worth all the rest of my life!”

  “A day to be proud of,” he agreed. He wondered if the fight was at Violante’s post. He tried to imagine her, wild among the spears. But the image which rose before him was of a tall, spare, limping man, whose countenance meshed in fine lines as he drawled some jest. Now why should I be lonely for Brother Hugh the Hospitaller? Lucas wondered, almost irritated. I hardly knew him.

  An answer came: Because this is an honorable combat, not waged for plunder or revenge. Unused to such inward whisperings, half-afraid it might have been a demon--or still more terrifying, an angel--Lucas crossed himself and sought diversion. He traced out the constellations, watched the morning star rise, counted the meteoric streaks crisscrossing in utter silence. But he found no comfort. A sense of the stars’ remoteness filtered into his breast. He shivered and prayed for dawn.

  When it came, the night grew unreal in his memory, as if everything had been a dream.

  Soon afterward, Spinola recalled his exhausted mariners. From their walls the garrison saw a turmoil among the galleys, until a freshly formed host moved up toward the iron gate. The multiplicity of shields with armorial bearings showed that some four hundred men of the best Genoese families were in the van. Sunlight winked on their metal and burned in their five banners.