Greek Fire

by James Boschert

  The game became even more ferocious after that. Isaac had still not scored and it was clear to Talon and the rest of his team that he was seething with anger at being blocked by Talon from doing so. Talon never gave him an opportunity. He stuck very close to him as they rode along the field. Isaac even resorted to insults and jabs with his elbow to try to shed this shadow. All it did was to make Talon more determined to stop him at every turn.

  The activity on the field was not lost on the Emperor and his entourage who all knew the game well and could appreciate what was going on. Surrounded by his generals and secretaries he commented at one time, “It seems that my brother is not having the game all his own way for a change.”

  “Indeed, Your Highness, it would seem that the Frank is staying with him,” his Chamberlain commented tactfully.

  “I would say Isaac is going to get very angry if he does not score a goal in the entire game,” Manuel laughed. Everyone nearby who had heard the remark laughed too.

  “See that?” Manuel pointed as Isaac rode into Talon hard. “He is getting very angry. I hope that Frank is good enough to avoid him when he finally loses it.”

  *****

  Out on the field tempers were coming to a boil. Isaac was becoming dangerous. He flailed at Talon on one occasion when Talon leaned over and just tipped his stick so that once again Isaac missed a pickup.

  “You Frankish barbarian!” he shouted, and if Talon had not skittered out of the way on his pony the end of Isaac’s stick would have slashed his face. Talon said nothing, he just watched and waited until another opportunity arrived to thwart yet again Isaac’s attempts to obtain the ball. As his opponent became ever more enraged so Talon became more collected. He finally had the measure of this man.

  It was late in the game now and Alexios had scored once more with a terrific pass from one of his players that allowed him to gallop almost unimpeded to the opposition goal and return the insult by dropping the ball just inside the goal posts. He even nudged the ball a little with his stick to emphasize the point.

  All the players and ponies on both sides were near exhaustion. Faces were streaked with sweat and dust, features were tight with fatigue, their clothing was wet through, and in many cases there was blood. Their ponies, although replaced frequently, were rapidly tiring and the players were becoming sluggish. A small opportunity arrived for Talon.

  He snatched the ball out from among the legs of yet another melee and was almost unobserved as he did so because of the dust surrounding everyone. The thrilling thought flickered through his mind that he might not have been detected when a roar almost in his ear cleared that up. Isaac had seen what he had done, but by this time Talon and his pony were fleeing like the wind toward the other side’s goal. Isaac was not that far behind, however, and behind him were the other players. The audience, sensing that the foreigner might be about to score, began to shout encouragement.

  As Talon approached the goal lines Isaac rode up behind him and struck him a blow on the back. It was a blatant foul and made Talon arch his back with the pain, but no one was going to do anything about it and Talon knew it. He gripped his stick all the harder and drove his spurs into his pony to gain that last few yards before he could toss the ball over the line. They rode over the line together, Isaac on Talon’s left side hammering at him ferociously while Talon leaned away from the blows. Then, standing in his right stirrup and anchoring himself to the pommel by just his left heel, he leaned all the way out and tossed the ball through the goal posts as he passed by.

  He did not even have time to see if the ball actually went through the goal as he resettled into his saddle and Isaac brought his pony up on it haunches and swung its shoulder into Talon’s side. Instinctively Talon swung his arm up to defend himself and the back of his hand connected with Isaac’s snarling face, which was very close. Talon felt the impact of his backhand but did not realize what he had hit, only that he was suddenly alone. The pain in his back made him stop his pony and bend over the pommel before sliding off its back to land on bent knees leaning against its heaving sides as he tried to bring the pain in the small of his back under control.

  He was quite unaware of the people running past him until he heard Niko approach and say, “Dear God, what happened?”

  “He hit me in the back. Lord it hurts!” Talon groaned.

  “Not you, Talon. Do you not know what happened?” Niko exclaimed.

  “No, what? Did I score?” Talon gasped.

  “Yes, you idiot. But…look what happened…look over there.” Niko pointed.

  Talon glanced at him, noticed the alarmed expression on his face, and turned to look back the way he had come at the field. A small crowd of people were milling about around someone who was lying on the ground.

  “You knocked the Emperor’s brother off his horse, Talon,” Niko said. His tone was grim. “I think the game is over now.”

  “Dear God, what have I done?” Talon groaned and leaned his head against the sweaty neck of his pony, which had its head down and its sides heaving. He wondered if he would survive this wretched game at all.

  Alexios rode up and hurriedly dismounted, throwing the reins and his stick to one of the grooms who ran up to collect the pony.

  “Well, it looks like we are finished here,” he said, his voice toneless. “Isaac seems like he is in pain. The Emperor might have something to say about this.”

  Talon looked at his two battered teammates. If they felt anything like he did then they were in pain too. They were all bruised and battered. He welcomed the finish, although he did wonder what might happen to him now that he had apparently committed a dreadful sin. Alexios wiped the sweat off his face and neck with a cloth provided by one of the grooms. He shook his head with a worried look.

  “I am sure the Emperor saw how Isaac struck Talon the way he did,” Niko said nervously as he took a deep breath and handed off his pony to another groom.

  “We will have to see. Look, they are taking Isaac away on a bed! He must be hurt. I think it is his arm. Oh my God! The physicians are putting his arm in a sling! He must have broken it when he fell.”

  Indeed the physicians were attempting to ease Isaac’s arm into some kind of sling, but the loud roars of pain and cursing were hampering their efforts to make their patient comfortable. A man came running up to Alexios and spoke to him in rapid Greek.

  Alexios turned to his companions and said, “We are bid to make our way to the center of the field for a ruling from the Emperor.” He sounded very apprehensive.

  They mounted up and with the rest of the team made their way slowly to the center of the field and the pavilions where the Emperor and his nobles awaited them.

  When they were alongside the remainder of the opposition team they lined up in silence and waited. Manuel took his time, keeping them waiting while he conversed with members of his entourage. Finally he stood up from his comfortable chair and walked to the edge of the terrace where he now stood looking down on the nervous teams. His feet were about level with their heads.

  “It was a good game to watch and well played; all of you played well and did honor to this stadium. As to a winner? I shall award the game to the team of my brother as the final goal is disallowed due to a foul. There will be a banquet tonight to celebrate the game and to reward the winning team. You are dismissed.”

  The ritual cheer praising the Emperor was shouted by all, then the teams turned away to go back to their lines.

  Talon turned his pony away along with the others. Niko was muttering under his breath and Alexios bore an expression of disbelief.

  “How could he do that to us?” Theodoulos gave an angry yelp. “I saw what happened, Talon scored a clean goal. Prince Isaac was the one who played foul.”

  “Shut up, Theo,” Alexios said grimly.

  “I can bet that Panto is feeling pretty smug right now, the bastard,” one of the other players said between his teeth.

  Most of them thought that Talon had done nothing wrong, and witho
ut talking they formed a protective group around him as they came to the horse lines. Then everyone disbursed, but not before they had all promised to meet up and drink some wine to celebrate the game.

  “We did well out there today,” said one of the players whom Talon did not know. “They were the better team going onto the field without a doubt, but we hammered them.”

  “Your tactics worked really well, Niko. You’ll make a good general one day.”

  “Do you mind?” Niko said, pretending indignation. “It is an Admiral I shall be, one day for sure, not a mere General. That will be for lesser beings like you.”

  The banter continued. All of the players were full of praise for Talon and Theodoulos for taking Pantoleon and Isaac out of the game.

  “It was great play, Talon, but I do not remember telling you to break Isaac’s arm in the process,” Niko said putting his arm over Talon’s shoulder. It drew much laughter; Isaac it would seem was not a popular man.

  Talon said goodbye to his newfound friends and began to leave, only to find Sir Guy, Max and Claude waiting for him on the edge of the horse lines.

  “We have come to ensure that you get home in one piece, Sir Talon,” Sir Guy said with one of those small smiles of his.

  “And I appreciate that,” replied Talon, “but could we please stop at the bath house on the way?”

  _________

  The Kings of the world are growing old,

  and they shall have no inheritors.

  Their sons died while they were boys

  and their neurasthenic daughters abandoned

  and sick crown to the mob,

  Rainer Rilke

  Chapter 11

  Negotiations

  The day after the game on the Tzykanisterion the Emperor held an audience with the Turkish delegation.

  Unlike the audience with the Templars there were many irksome formalities inflicted upon the Turks who had been waiting around in the Venetian quarter for almost a month by now. True, the officer placed in charge of them had been rigidly correct in his behavior toward them, but he had not kept them informed as to what was going on in the palace, so they had no idea when they would be called upon to attend the Emperor.

  Eventually, after complaining vociferously to the officer, Yiğit had won a concession. They were allowed to walk under escort along the walls to the Gate of the Neorion to greet their companions who had been left on the beach to fend for themselves. They were not in a very good way, having been denied entrance to the city even to buy food. They had resorted to fishing and paying such vendors as there were on the shoreline exorbitant prices for other necessities. There was much discontent and indignation at such treatment of emissaries.

  Yiğit had been furious and had demanded that his men be allowed to join him in the confines of the Venetian quarter, and also demanded that as an emissary he be allowed the freedom to walk at liberty around the area. It took much argument and pressure from him to gain these meager concessions from the officer, who finally received permission for Yiğit to walk about freely, though his men were to remain within the confines of the quarter. Yiğit realized that he was not going to gain much more from the Byzantines so he accepted the situation with as good grace as he could.

  Now he was to be presented to the great emperor of the Greeks to make the case his sultan had commanded him. He knew it was a difficult mission and was not sure how much he could accomplish given the animosity that existed between the two nations. He had done all he could to clean up his disheveled best coat and breeches. He had his son polish his boots till there was a nice sheen on them and he had his mustache trimmed. He knew in his heart that his dress was shabby by comparison to the opulence of the court, however, and dreaded having to make an appearance before all those elegant Greek courtiers. How he longed for the wide open spaces and the fresh air of the grasslands around Konya. This place was stifling, and the constant hum of activity even at night was beginning to make him feel tired and irritable.

  Their escort took them up the hill to the monstrous buildings at the eastern end of the city, past curious people who pointed at them and sometimes laughed at their strange clothing. Although he could barely understand them, it was enough that he gathered their meaning. He gritted his teeth but pretended to pay no attention as he strode proudly forward.

  Yiğit had brought his son Burak with him and two of the more presentable warriors who carried presents for the Emperor. They were ushered into the huge entrance hall by strange blond warriors with ice-blue eyes. In this effete company they seemed to be the only people who would be able to put up a fight. He stared with contempt at the gilded manikins masquerading as warriors standing at some of the doorways through which they were admitted. Bracing himself for the ordeal to come, the Turk greeted the perfumed eunuch who came to meet them politely enough. They used an interpreter.

  It was with some dismay that he beheld the brightly lit and glittering audience room ahead of him. It was filled with nobles and officials, many of whom were definitely not Greek as, for instance, the group of Arab ambassadors standing near the doorway. The Arab dignitaries were dressed in outfits of the finest silk and cotton, any one of which would have purchased Yiğit half a dozen herds of sheep. He told his son to wait for him at the doorway. Then he squared his shoulders and walked proudly alone behind the eunuch towards the figure seated on the throne at the other end of the room. His two men heaved the caskets of treasure along several paces behind him.

  He went through the humiliation of the crawl to the throne, but then his pride took over and he rose to his feet. There were gasps of disapproval from all around but he ignored them. He threw back his cloak and took a stance proudly in front of the Emperor and waited. He was a representative of the sultan, was he not?

  The Emperor spoke some words in Greek which were translated in a high falsetto by a eunuch standing near the throne.

  “We greet you as an ambassador of the Sultan Kilij Arslan.”

  Yiğit gave a deep bow. “I am honored to be in the presence of Your Majesty. I come in peace with gifts to your Eminence from my Sultan.”

  He had the boxes of treasures opened in front of the Emperor, who barely glanced at them, although the Sultan had gone to great lengths to send beautiful objects of gold and silver to please him. It did not matter very much that some of the items had been recently plundered from the southern reaches of the Seljuk holdings. The Emperor nodded acceptance, the treasure was whisked away out of sight, and the real business began.

  Yiğit had already glimpsed a familiar face among the crowd so he knew that the emirs of Danishmend were here to make sure that the Emperor maintained his support for them in exile. Perhaps even Shahishah, that snake from Danishmend, was lurking in the background trying not to be seen but doubtless taking a keen interest in the outcome of this particular audience. It gave him a malicious sense of amusement that they might even have recognized a few of the baubles he had presented to this Greek emperor.

  The Emperor was speaking again. “We would know for what reason you are here today. We have sent messengers to the sultan but have thus far received no answers that please us. Do you bring letters from him?”

  Yiğit nodded, bowed again and drew out of his jacket several rolls of parchment that he had been keeping safe all this time.

  “I bring messages of good will from my Sultan, Your Majesty. He asks only for peace and reconciliation between our peoples.”

  While the words were being translated he handed the rolls to a eunuch who held them in front of the Emperor, who touched them with bejeweled fingers before they were carried away.

  “We will read them. Peace between our nations seems to Us to be a good thing, but your Sultan has broken treaties of long standing. Not only that, he has refused thus far to hand over much of the lands he took from the Danishmends who are our vassals. We do not consider this to be an act of friendship, nor of peace.”

  “Sire, my only mission is to beg for peace between us,” Yiğit said c
almly. “My Sultan does not want war and will do much to avoid one. What message may I take back with me to assure him that this will be the case? I am sure there is a misunderstanding with regard to the territories you have mentioned.”

  “There is no misunderstanding. You will return to your sultan and inform him that our patience is at an end. He has six months to comply with the terms of our treaty, after that it is ended.”

  Before Yiğit could elaborate or even try to explain the Turkish side of the argument the interview was at an end.

  Yiğit was forced to bow deeply and walk backwards to the door feeling humiliated and frustrated. He had not expected such an abrupt termination. As he walked backwards he heard quite clearly words muttered in Turkish from one of the emirs who watched him with undisguised hate. “Tell your Kilij Arslan that the Emperor is going to crush him and take back that which he has stolen. The next time you appear here it will just be your head on a plate, and hopefully his too,” the man hissed.

  As the Turks exited the palace at the main gate and waited for their escort, Yiğit pondered his situation. He was seething with rage at the treatment meted out to him. What difference was there between his delegation and that of, say, those perfidious, flowery Arabs whom no one trusted anyway? The Sultan had ordered him to negotiate for time; the intent was to avoid a war on his western front while he was engaged in consolidating his gains in the south. The Byzantine army was capable and disciplined and could indeed crush any army of the Turks in the open field.

  Yiğit felt apprehensive. The Sultan did not take kindly to failure even if he did like and respect his emissary. But to Yiğit’s chagrin there had been little he could do. It was very clear to him that these sophisticated, pretty colored peacocks did not see the necessity of dealing with the Sultan, let alone a mere emissary. Yiğit was sure that the six month warning was hollow and that it would be much sooner than that when an army came to challenge the Sultan.