by Tom Harper
‘I will leave my uncle to judge the truth of that. Unless I choose to bring him a dozen more trophies.’
‘He would prefer me alive.’ I needed all the strength of Sigurd’s shield to keep from shaking as I tried to deflect the murderous Norman. ‘Indeed, I am in your uncle Bohemond’s employ.’
‘Why would my uncle waste one bezant on a Greek?’ The disbelief was plain on Tancred’s young face. ‘What is your name?’
‘Demetrios Askiates.’
‘I have never heard him speak of you.’
‘He asked me to find the killer of Drogo of Melfi.’
‘Drogo?’ The name was clearly known to Tancred, but I never discovered whether it would have provoked aid or anger, for at that moment – for the second time in the afternoon – we were interrupted by the noise of galloping hoofbeats. They came from the direction of the city, and in an instant Tancred’s lieutenants were shouting at their men to form a rough line across the valley. Sigurd and I and the rest of the Varangians loosed our ranks, so as not to block the way, and turned to face the new danger.
‘There should be no other Christians in these hills.’ Tancred stared down the road. ‘It must be Turks.’
‘If we’re lucky, it may be a grain caravan,’ said one of the Normans nearby.
Tancred looked at him in scorn. ‘Do you think that is the sound of laden mules?’
It was not. Hardly had the words been spoken when the horsemen came around the bend at the bottom of the valley, a squadron of twenty or so Turkish cavalry. The brass inlay on their helmets, poking out from the turbans wound about them, gleamed in the sun; some carried spears, while others had bows slung across their shoulders. They could not have expected to meet us, for they rode unprotected in a loose column.
‘Charge!’ shouted Tancred, tucking his spear under his arm. He spurred his horse, and the Norman line swept into motion, gathering pace as it advanced down the slope. There must have been fifty of them, and if they could close swiftly enough they might yet trap the Turks in their column. Sigurd and our company stayed where we were.
The Turkish horses were smaller than the Normans’, but they had an agility and an affinity with the uneven land which their adversaries could not match. The moment they had come within sight of the Normans, the Turks had wheeled about and begun their retreat. Already they were almost at the steep bluffs around which the road disappeared, though the curve seemed to slow them, allowing the Normans to close.
‘If Tancred gets any nearer, he’ll have to duck,’ Sigurd observed.
Sure enough, a second later three of the Turks swivelled in their saddles and loosed a volley of arrows at the leading Normans. The horses swerved and shied, almost throwing their riders, and the distance between the two forces widened. Once they were past the cliff the Turks would have an almost straight road back to the city, and the Normans would be hard pressed to catch them.
Looking down the valley after the fleeing horsemen, I let my gaze wander. In the gap where the road rounded the cliff I could see the green valley descending towards the river beyond; up on my right, the ridge of the valley followed the line of the road until it ended in the bluffs.
I paused, keeping my gaze fixed on the cliff. The main body of the Normans were under it now yet it seemed I could see something glinting above. It could not be the Turkish riders, for they would have needed winged steeds to climb it. Perhaps it was a spring, or a puddle.
‘Christ’s shit.’ Sigurd spoke it so mildly that at first I thought he must have dropped his shield on his toe, or pricked himself on a briar. Then I saw where he looked, and the obscenity was on my lips also. As if smitten by an unseen hand, two of the Normans had fallen from their horses at the foot of the cliff. Even as I watched, one of the other animals collapsed onto its knees. The heights above, where I had imagined I saw a puddle, now bristled with archers who were pouring arrows over the precipice.
‘Come on.’ Shouldering his shield, Sigurd grabbed my arm and dragged me after him, running across the slope of the valley towards the cliff. His men followed as we stumbled through the gorse and rocks, the sound of our bouncing armour jangling in my ears. My thighs burned with the effort; with every step my legs had to be kept from sliding away down the hillside. With the footing so treacherous I could risk only the briefest glances forward, and I prayed that the Turks on the cliff ahead were too preoccupied with their attack to look back.
Following Sigurd, we came around the crook of the valley and crested the ridge on its northern arm. From where we stood, it ran down gently to the head of the cliffs where the Turkish archers still loosed their arrows on the unseen Normans below. We crouched in the shadow of a boulder as Sigurd swiftly counted them.
‘Twenty-three,’ he announced.
‘Two to one,’ I said.
‘Not if you count a Varangian worth three of them. We’ll advance in line, quietly. If they see us, close ranks and make the shield wall. They’re isolated on that promontory, and without their horses. Get close enough, and we’ll deny them their favourite tactic.’
‘What’s that?’
Sigurd grinned. ‘Running away.’
It was a tactic I would happily have embraced myself, but I had no choice. Already we were moving on, spilling out from the shelter of the rock and advancing slowly down the loose scree towards the enemy. Mimicking the Varangians around me, I dropped into a low crouch with my shield held before me. Sweat trickled from under my helmet, running down behind the nose-guard, while I fervently wished I had painted my shield some colour other than red. Still the distance between us closed, and still they did not see us: I could hear their bowstrings snapping now, and the screams of men and horses echoing up from the road below.
‘Now,’ said Sigurd from my right. ‘We’ll sweep them off that cliff. Just be sure you don’t get between them and the edge. We—’
Whether the Turks heard him, or whether one of them turned back, I did not see, but no sooner had Sigurd spoken than a great infidel shout rang out from the cliff. Some already had arrows nocked, and they turned in an instant to loose them at us. From either side of me came the ringing crack of iron embedding itself in leather.
‘Come on,’ bellowed Sigurd. He was on his feet, drawn up to his full size like a bear facing its hunter. The axe seemed to dance in his hands. He ran down the last few yards of the slope while the arrows swarmed towards him, and slowed not an inch as he punched his shield into the face of his first adversary. The arrows which stuck from it snapped with the impact, and I saw their splinters tear great rents into the Turk’s skin as he collapsed backwards.
The rest of our company met the enemy, a crimson line of swinging axes and barbarian cries, and I realised too late that the drama of the spectacle had stilled me in my place. In every battle I had ever fought, from the mountains of Lydia against imperial usurpers to the alleys of Constantinople against mercenaries and thieves, I had begun with the same alloy of dread and anger molten in my heart; in every battle, I had forced the fury to vanquish the fear. It seemed to grow ever harder as I grew older, but still I could not fail before God and my friends. I charged forward.
No arrows flew now, for the Turks had abandoned their bows for spears and knives, but the air was still clouded with blades swooping, stabbing, hacking and biting. I threw up my shield as a spear lunged out of the fray, and managed to deflect it past my shoulder. The man who held it stumbled on, too committed to break off his attack, and in a second an almost forgotten instinct had swung my sword into his jaw. Blood gushed out of his mouth as he sank to the ground, and our stares met in shared disbelief. Then his head slumped forward, and mine jerked up to seek the next threat.
But already the battle had passed me. On horseback, or with the bow, few could equal the Turks, but on foot and face to face they were no match for the raging Northmen. A slew of their dead lay scattered on the rocky ground before me, while their last remnants made a desperate stand on the brink of the cliff. Even as I watched, Sigurd kicked one
in the ribs so that he staggered back, lost his footing and flailed over the edge. Seeing the cause was lost, that they could retreat no further and fight no longer, his companions threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees.
I joined Sigurd at the cliff edge. Both of us were breathing hard, both dashed with blood and the grime that fixes itself to men in battle, both still too much in thrall to the frenzy of war to speak. Below us, I could see Tancred’s Normans huddled into a grove of pine trees just off the road. Several of them, men and horses, lay sprawled out, pierced with arrows. A little further down the road the company of Turkish archers they had originally pursued sat mounted in a line, looking up at our cliff uncertainly.
‘Get those bows,’ Sigurd barked. ‘Let them see they’re defeated.’
The Varangians, who had already begun stripping the dead of their armour, were quick to obey. Kneeling by the cliff, they loosed a desultory volley of arrows towards the mounted Turks. They did not fly with any great accuracy or range – only one struck within twenty paces of its target – but it was enough to convince our enemy. Before the last arrow had dropped, they had turned their backs to us and cantered away towards Antioch.
Suddenly I felt my limbs go as weak as straws. I sat down on a rock and surveyed our bloodstained promontory. One of the Varangians was down, his shoulder gouged by a Turkish spear, but his companions were giving him water from a flask and I guessed he would live at least long enough to see whether the rot set in. Otherwise, we had suffered few injuries. Of the Turks, meanwhile, I counted eleven dead or dying among us; some had been forced over the cliff, while others must have managed to squeeze around our line and run for safety. We would not pursue them.
Sigurd caught my gaze. Even his arm did not seem so steady as it had before. ‘Another bloody skirmish,’ he said, kicking at a loose helmet on the ground. It clattered like a cymbal as it bounced over the cliff and down to the road. ‘More scars to no purpose.’
‘We saved Tancred and his men,’ I reminded him. ‘Their gratitude may yet serve us in its turn.’
‘Their gratitude. They will feel no gratitude – only envious shame that they owe their lives to a rabble of womanly Greeks.’ Sigurd turned away. ‘And when we get back, Demetrios, we will find that this bloodshed has not loosed one pebble from the walls of Antioch.’
ι α
Sigurd’s glum prophecy proved all too accurate. No sooner had we regained the road, leaving the Turks unburied on the cliff top, than we were facing the sneers of Normans whose sudden rescue only sharpened the barbs they threw at us. Their temper was improved somewhat by the discovery of a herd of horses tethered in the next valley, doubtless left there by the archers on the cliff, but we almost started a fresh battle quarrelling over whose spoils they were. Tancred, invoking the precedence of nobility, claimed them for himself, while Sigurd bluntly reminded him what we had achieved while the Normans had been cowering in the trees. In the end, as voices rose and swords edged from their scabbards, I forced them to agree that we would take only as many mounts as we needed for ourselves, and let Bohemond adjudge the final division.
Though I was never a natural horseman, it was a blessing at last to have a beast to carry me. The long day in hostile lands, the trials of the pagan cave, and finally the murderous terror of battle had drained the strength from me, so I was content to slump in the saddle, my legs hanging loose, and let the horse walk me home. The Turkish prisoners we had taken, five of them, straggled behind us under the gaze of the Varangians.
At the ford we encountered more horsemen. Tancred spurred to meet them, churning a foamy path through the water, and greeted them as friends. Drawing near, letting the river ride up over my boots, I heard them exchange greetings in the Norman tongue.
‘You have returned safely, praise God,’ said one. ‘Three hours ago, we saw a company of Turks ride out from the St George gate. We feared you might meet them. An hour since, they returned, fewer in number.’
‘We met them,’ Tancred said. ‘And by the grace of God, we taught them that there is not one inch of this land where they can walk in safety. But how did they know to seek us? We left last night, and travelled in the dark.’
‘The enemy has many spies,’ the Norman offered.
It seemed more likely that they had seen our company of Varangians leaving in the morning, but I did not say so.
‘Too many spies,’ Tancred agreed. ‘And even now they may be watching.’ His stare seemed to settle on me. ‘We had best hurry on to the camp. Doubtless my uncle will want to know of my victory.’
We rode on, dismounting to lead our horses across the boat bridge and continuing along the well-worn path around the walls. As the crowds thickened near the camps, Sigurd had to order his men to close ranks around the Turkish prisoners, in an effort to ward off the jeers and mud and stones that the Franks hurled at them. Several times I felt my shield shiver with the impact of pebbles, and I had to stroke my horse’s neck to calm her skittish nerves. The laughter of the Normans ahead did nothing to dim the taunts.
We halted in the forlorn square of mud which served as the Norman exercise ground. Bohemond was waiting there atop his white warhorse, surrounded by a clutch of his household knights.
‘You have been in battle,’ he said coolly, his gaze darting over Tancred’s depleted company.
‘We encountered a troop of Turks,’ Tancred answered. There was still that wheedling petulance in his voice which, despite his broad frame and high charger, made him sound like a child. ‘When we gave chase, they led us into a trap. It was only by ferocious effort that we escaped it. We captured two dozen of their horses,’ he added, sensing that his story had inspired little avuncular pride.
‘How many did you lose?’
‘Eight,’ Tancred admitted.
‘Horses?’
‘Men.’ He paused, blushing. ‘Eleven horses. But I have made good the deficit, uncle. And I cannot be blamed for our losses when spies and traitors infest our camp. They knew to expect us there – and they laid their trap accordingly.’
‘Fool.’ Bohemond trotted forward until his mount was beside Tancred’s, then reached out of his saddle and slapped his nephew across the cheek. ‘A hunter may set a snare, but he cannot force his quarry to spring it. For that, he relies on the animal’s own brute stupidity.’ He kicked his horse away and stared at the Varangians. ‘And if you fought so valiantly to rout your enemy, why is it Greeks who carry the spoils and guard the prisoners?’
Tancred chose to ignore the question. ‘Why, after five months in this cursed place, are the Turks still free to ride in and out of their city as they please, and to swamp our camp with their spies?’
Bohemond looked in scorn on his nephew. ‘First learn to fight a skirmish, and leave wiser heads to govern the war. As to the spies, we will see what your prisoners can tell us of that.’
‘My prisoners,’ I corrected him. ‘We took them in the battle.’
‘While your nephew cowered behind a pine tree,’ Sigurd added, unhelpfully.
Tancred spat at him. ‘Because you were too cowardly to charge the Turks with us.’
Sigurd tapped a fist against the side of his helmet so that it rang like a bell. ‘Not cowardly – clever. Perhaps when you reach your manhood you will understand.’
‘Enough!’ Bohemond raised a fist to still us, his eyes pale with anger. ‘These prisoners will avail you nothing, Demetrios. Look at them – do you think they will command a penny’s ransom from the Turks? All they will bring you is five more mouths that you can ill afford to feed. Leave them with me, and I will see they are treated according to the laws of Christ.’
He spoke truthfully, at least as regarded their value, yet I was uneasy at consigning any man, even an Ishmaelite, to the care of the Normans. Sigurd growled a warning under his breath, while the five Turks looked on hopelessly, unable to understand the men who haggled over their fate. I caught one of them staring at me, his dark eyes wide with uncomprehending fear, and felt fresh qua
lms assail me.
But Bohemond would not be denied. Before I could forestall him, he had ordered his men to surround the prisoners and lead them away. A crowd of soldiers and pilgrims had gathered around the exercise ground, drawn to a quarrel like flies to a wound, and I dared not provoke any further fight. As the Turks disappeared between the tents, staring helplessly back at us, the most I could do was touch my chest where my cross hung – for the dozenth time that day, it seemed – and pray that they would be treated mercifully.
Sigurd watched them go. ‘It dishonours a man to be robbed of his prisoners,’ he said sourly.
‘It dishonours him worse to disobey his betters,’ Bohemond snapped.
‘When I meet a better man, I shall be sure to obey him.’
There was no profit in arguing further with the Normans. As ever, they gave the sense of men poised on a knife-edge, waiting for the least excuse to fall into a quarrel. Sigurd sent his company back to the camp with the horses, while he and I went in search of Quino and Odard. It seemed an age since we had stood in that pagan cave, with its blood-soaked floor and terrible altar, yet it had been only a few hours ago. Four Normans had entered that cave and only two still lived: I was eager to question the survivors before any further misfortune befell them.
The boy, Simon, was sitting outside the tent cradling a shield in his lap as he worked fat into the hide covering. For the briefest second, his eyes flickered up to greet us, then fixed back on his work.
‘Is your master present?’ I asked.
Without answering, he laid the shield on the grass and hurried through the canvas door. He did not reappear; when the flap opened again, it was Odard who emerged. Unlike most men, who had shrunk within their clothes in previous months, he seemed still too large for his tunic. It rode high above his knees and elbows, showing off limbs that were little more than bones.
‘Greek,’ he said, in his high, pecking voice. ‘You are not wanted here.’
‘Nor were the prophets in Israel – but they spoke words worth hearing.’ It was a response I had honed in many years of knocking on unwelcoming doors. It had yet to persuade anyone.