Greek Fire

by James Boschert

  “The west does not have the same skills as, for example, the Genoese or the Venetians at building fast and seaworthy ships. The Templar fleet is too small for an endeavor of this magnitude, and while there are other shipbuilders, the Basque people for instance, and indeed the Kingdom of Aragon and the Catalans who can build good ships, they do not have the resources to build enough large troop-carrying vessels. The Venetians are the best ship builders in the world, but they hate the Byzantine emperor for imprisoning their merchant people, so it is very unlikely that they will help.”

  “It does pose the question, Sir Guy. Why does not the emperor finance and send an army to Palestine himself?”

  Sir Guy chuckled. “There was a time when the Byzantine army was invincible, but in these latter generations that hasn’t been the case. The Komnenos emperors have done well, Alexios I, John his son, and now Manuel, but they inherited an empire in disarray. It is all the emperor can do today to hold onto what belongs to him. It is being nibbled away by many enemies who clamor to come to this city and sack it. You probably know of whom I speak. There are the Arabs, and the Seljuks of Rum, and Roger of Sicily who gave us Franks a bad name by behaving like some pirate on the seas. His son wants this empire for himself. I do not think Manuel would dare to stay away from home long enough to allow that to happen.”

  “What is the other item you mentioned, Sir Guy?”

  “Ah, that is on a more delicate note. Our king, Baldwin, is offering a treaty to the emperor based upon marriage of his son to a close relative of the emperor. The emperor is married to Marie of Antioch. They had a son in 1169 named Alexios, after his Grandfather. King Baldwin would like to propose a marriage of alliance between the young prince and one of Duke Raymond of Tripoli’s daughters.”

  “How would that be a good alliance, Sir Guy?” Talon asked, although he thought he already knew.

  “This would help to bind the principalities of the Holy Land to Byzantium and that would be a good alliance, as then Manuel could concentrate his efforts upon keeping William of Sicily and the Venetians at bay. So although they are only children it would be a profitable alliance for both the empire and our kingdom,” explained Sir Guy.

  “So this is why we are here without fanfare and trumpets,” Talon said with a grin.

  “I like to be able to negotiate in secret and have certain things agreed before any announcement. It is known that the emperor is somewhat capricious, so our negotiations are better kept secret until there is something hammered out in writing for the Bishops to announce.”

  “Then what are these two monks doing here, Sir?”

  “It was decided that the gifts we would present to the emperor would be illuminated volumes from the church of the Holy Sepulcher. These two Brothers would do the presenting, as they are holy books. Jonathan is a spy for the Bishop who knows about the mission. He is supposed to speak Greek and was therefore to be of use to me. His companion Martin is more of a servant. This is why I wanted you to learn as much Greek as possible before we arrived. I do not entirely trust Jonathan.”

  “So…then we do not talk about this in front of the two monks,” Talon stated.

  Sir Guy nodded in silence. “Jonathan will be present for the negotiations in the first instance, as will you three, but you are all the escort I wanted and the Grand Master agreed.”

  “Why is Jonathan so distrustful of these people, Sir Guy? Martin does not seem to be so against them.”

  Sir Guy turned to Talon and said, “You have been in this part of the world since your birth. You should know that there are three rules that govern any relationship with your neighbors out here. Only three.”

  Talon sat up. “Three, Sir Guy?”

  Sir Guy nodded. “They are pragmatism, coin and trust. Trust is the most fragile and most easily broken, but these Greeks understand all three just as well as the Persians, the Turks and the Arabs. We Franks, whom they call the Latins, do not.”

  He got up to leave. “Now I shall take a nap. We might have a busy day tomorrow. My old friends Alexios Bryennios, who is still the prefect of Constantinople, and his companion John Komateros will be wanting to meet with me, very soon I suspect.”

  “Who are they, Sir?”

  “They are the men who came to Jerusalem to negotiate for the Queen Marie. We met then and I grew to like both,” Sir Guy said over his shoulder.

  Claude, who had remained silent for most of the discussion, got up and said, “I shall leave you two worthies to talk about these things. I too need some sleep after that meal. It is getting hot and I need to rest my old bones. God Protect.”

  “God protect,” they answered in unison. Max threw a crust of bread after him. Claude grinned and waved as he left the garden.

  Talon took a sip of water and regarded Max. “Did you know any of this before, Max?”

  Max looked injured. “No, Talon I did not. Remember, I arrived with you from Egypt and it was not until Sir Guy called us in that I knew we were even coming here.”

  “Well, it seems that we must support Sir Guy in all ways, as it is doubtful that the bishop’s spy, as he calls Brother Jonathan, will aid us in any way. The more I listen to Sir Guy the more I want to learn from him.”

  “I would even go so far as to say that it is the bishop that Sir Guy does not trust, Talon,” Max said in a low tone after first glancing at the entrance to the garden. They were both facing the ingress, having seated themselves instinctively in the best place to observe quickly any untoward activity.

  “Why is that?”

  “The bishop like all of his kind is a political animal, and the Templars sometimes diverge from his goals. I remember it being like this when I was in Palestine before. Your uncle Phillip, may God be kind to his soul, used to tell me that Sir Guy was often frustrated by those of the Church who disliked the Templars.”

  “Could the bishop profit from the failure of this mission? Is that what you are telling me, Max?”

  “I do not know in all honesty, Talon. But I think it would pay us to be on our guard.”

  _______________

  What course of life should wretched mortals take?

  In courts hard questions large contention make.

  Care dwells in houses, labor in the field,

  Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield.

  In foreign lands thou never canst be blessed;

  If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distressed.

  Posidippus

  Chapter 4

  Visitors

  A good week after the Templars arrived, another group of people landed on the other side of the peninsula. To the north side of the city a ship eased into the harbor of Neorion. The master of the ship was Byzantine, but his passengers were from the Sultanate of Rum. The ship carried thirty of the Sultan’s men and their horses. Yiğit, leader of the Turks, stood at the bows of the ship as it came into the harbor, contemplating the huge city that dominated the slopes above him. His son Burak walked along the narrow deck to stand beside his father.

  “How is it that we do not have cities like this in our lands, father?” he asked.

  His father turned to his son, irritated by the awe in his voice.

  “Because we have no need of them. Is Konya now too small for you? There are too many people here and they are Christian and therefore unbelievers. You should remember why we have come.”

  His son looked at him and said, “To gain time for the Sultan?”

  “Precisely, to gain time to strengthen our hold on the Rum in the south. That is why we are here.”

  “How will we accomplish that, father?”

  “That you will know in good time. We are about to land, so go and see to the horses. I want them unloaded by this evening. We have yet to be met at the gates and I do not want to be late.”

  Their horses were unloaded by the Byzantine sailors, who used the booms attached to the masts to lift the horses over the side where they were lowered into the water and made to swim to the shore. Later, when all were sa
fely disembarked, the master of the ship received pieces of gold from Yiğit, then took his boat away from the shoreline and anchored out in the small bay.

  The Turks looked up at the massive fortifications and wondered at this empire that appeared to be so powerful. At the gate of Neorion two sentries watched the contingent of nearly twenty riders unloading from the ship.

  “Go and fetch the Captain,” one of them told the other. “We have visitors from the Turkish lands.”

  The captain hurried up onto the battlements and peered down at the Turks from the gate tower.

  “We have been expecting them, but make them wait. Their escort has not yet come to meet them and I am damned if I will let that group of barbarians in until I know they are being taken in hand.”

  The Turks stopped their horses at the closed gates and stared up at the impassive soldiers on the walls, calling out that they needed entrance.

  “We have come with letters from the Sultan of Rum, His Majesty Sultan Kilij Arslan. We come in peace and ask for entrance,” Yiğit announced, and ordered his translator to inform the men on the walls. There was a shouted exchange and then their interpreter turned to him.

  “The captain says you will wait until an escort can be provided. They are not here yet.”

  The Turks were not happy but Yiğit told them to be patient. “They cannot very well let us all in without an escort, as we might overpower them and take their precious city,” he joked. There was laughter from his men.

  They waited for four hours, during which time the Turks dismounted and made fires upon which they brewed tea. Finally a shout from above warned them that something was happening.

  The gates creaked open and the Turks, who had hurriedly remounted, were faced with a unit of heavily armed cavalry who glowered at them. The stares were hostile so Yiğit warned his men to be careful and not to do anything stupid like pull out a sword or even a knife. A man in a fine uniform and gleaming plate armor rode forward with another next to him.

  The contrast between the two groups of riders was stark. The Turkish men were mounted upon small horses, shaggy and unkempt. Their stirrups were short, which gave them better control in a fight, and they all carried bows in sheaths under their thighs or hanging off their belts, and quivers over their shoulders. Almost to a man the Turks had long black braided hair and sported long mustaches, but were rough shaven otherwise.

  With the exception of Yiğit they were all clothed in rough woolen tunics, which came down to their knees over heavy cloth pantaloons. Despite the heat of summer many carried a rolled up pelt cloak or jacket tied to the cantles of their saddles. Each wore a fur hat of some type that was suited to the cold winters of the high plateaus around Konya and further east. Each man carried a small shield or buckler strapped to his left arm or hung off the pommel, and each carried a lance. One significant feature were the clumps of hair hanging off some of the lances and more grizzled warrior’s belts. These were the scalps of their enemies.

  Yiğit in contrast to his men wore a tunic of rough worked silk and a cloak that had been taken off a dead enemy some time back. His boots, as those of the others, were made of scuffed horsehide and were well worn. Over his knees were crude metal disks attached with straps. Their swords were of poor steel but it would have been a foolish man who had any doubt that they could use them well.

  In contrast, the Byzantine cavalry were dressed in white cotton tunics with embroidered hems that came down to their thighs, under which they wore tight-fitting trousers made of heavy leather with metal plates sewn onto the upper thighs. Over their tunics they wore hauberks composed of many small metal plates sewn onto thick cotton material. Each plate gleamed and chinked as they rode. Their forearms were bare but they carried shields that were far larger than those of the Turks. They too carried long slim lances with shining points, and long, slightly curved swords that were deadly when used by a skilled horseman. Each man had a metal helmet of bronze that had been polished to a high shine, on top of which was set a crest that identified his unit. Their legs were protected by greaves on their shins. Their horses were a good hand higher than those of the Turks and groomed to a shine.

  The officer approached and said something that Yiğit’s man translated. “You are to come with us. Do you have papers proving you are delegates from the sultan?”

  Yiğit, who pretended he could not speak Greek at all, waited until the words had been translated then reached into his tunic and brought out an elaborately sealed document that he passed along to the interpreter, who in turn handed it over to the officer, who in turn passed it to another man behind him.

  “You will be taken to accommodations which will be provided. You are to stay there and not to leave without permission. Anyone who tries to leave will be arrested by our soldiers and put in jail. Do you understand?”

  “Tell him we understand.” Yiğit said, after his man had translated. Yiğit felt angry at the tone and contempt displayed by the officer but held his tongue.

  The officer continued, echoed by the translator. “You will also disarm your men and leave the weapons outside the city walls. You have no need for them here.”

  Yiğit looked hard at the officer. He had not expected this. He was affronted but there was nothing he could do if he wanted to achieve his objective, so he gave a terse nod and told his men to comply.

  They protested but followed his orders, and tossed their swords and spears into a pile with a clatter. Soon there was a heap of weapons on the ground outside of the wooden gate. The officer indicated the bows and quivers that were still hanging off the saddles of the Turks.

  “They need to disarm. Everything.”

  “They are my bodyguard,” Yiğit tried to explain.

  “Then they will not enter this city. The choice is up to you.”

  The men obeyed the muttered command from Yiğit, scowling and casting ugly looks at the Byzantine soldiers, but they tossed their bows onto the pile.

  Yiğit shouted to some of the men whom he had ordered to stay by the seashore to come and collect their weapons. Several hurried over to do his bidding.

  “This area is known as the Venetian quarter,” the officer told him through the interpreter. You will be taken care of here. The Venetians have no need for it at present.” One of his men snickered.

  “How long must I wait before I can speak to your king?” Yiğit asked.

  “You will be told when you can have an audience with His Holiness the Emperor. In the meantime, do not leave this area or you will be hunted down and placed in prison.”

  Yiğit held his peace. He was here for a good reason and would not provoke the man who clearly viewed him and his entourage with disdain. He felt naked without his sword and other weapons, but his dagger was still hidden under his coat, as were those of his men.

  They were taken through the gate and then turned to the west along a stone paved street. As they rode the cavalry surrounded them and kept close by, as though the Turks at any moment might make a break for it and disappear into the dark streets of the city. They rode in wary silence with the officer alongside Yiğit and the interpreter until they came to a wooden palisade, where they stopped.

  “You will stay here,” the officer said.

  They were shown to their quarters and left to await the pleasure of the emperor.

  *****

  That same evening another ship slipped into the Prosphorion harbor, which was adjacent to the Neorion. This ship was a galley, similar to the dromons that were a large part of the Byzantine navy, but this one had been converted to a merchantman. The master was a Genoese, named Caravello Levaggi. He was a very experienced ship master who plied the eastern Mediterranean sea boards from Egypt to Genoa and even as far west as Andalusia.

  This time he was here with a cargo of iron and salt. He hoped to meet with the agent and unload his cargo within a few days. It was late in the day so he anchored in the harbor near other ships. He would be called to the quayside in the morning and met by the Logothetes tou G
enicon, who would ask him questions about his cargo and charge the reduced fee of seventeen solidi, a favor now given to the Genoese instead of the Venetians.

  He was rowed ashore by his two most trusted men, Christophas and Davide. Davide, a big hulk of a man and Caravello’s longtime bodyguard, accompanied him as he stepped ashore. They made their way through the gates and into the city with the confidence of long familiarity with the surroundings. They headed towards the center of what was known as the Genoese quarter. It was early evening and the Genoese were relaxing around their inns and eating places. They did not mix much with the Greeks of the city of Constantinople; indeed they were discouraged from doing so by the authorities. They had their area and were expected to remain there, especially after curfew.

  Caravello knew this, as he had been to Constantinople many times before. However, he also knew how to move around the city without attracting attention despite the fact that he was a solid looking man and a Latin, as his people were called by the Greeks. His rolling gait gave him away as a sailor, but then the city was full of sailors. His dress was similar to that worn by the locals: a tunic of rough cotton cloth with an expensive hem. He wore a short sword on his belt, a felt cap on his head, and a greasy jerkin that had known better days.

  He stayed in the Genoese quarter long enough to take the measure of the crowd and to share a simple meal with Davide. The people around him on the street and in the inns and alehouses seemed relaxed and a good deal less tense than the last time he had come to the city. It was while he was finishing his meal of roasted eels and city issue bread washed down with rough wine that he felt a touch on his arm. He turned sharply to find a man standing near by. The fellow was dressed in a long tunic with an over cloak, the pointed hood of which was pulled over his head so that his face was indistinguishable in the dark.