“The eparch and his skilful negotiation of the peace was a threat to the Paulicians because the treaty abolished their safety in Arab lands from which they are allowed to raid with impunity,” I explained. “The monks of Kells were merely unlucky—Cadoc wanted to see the governor, and Nikos could not risk allowing you to meet with Honorius and then returning to warn the emperor of the plot against him.”
“We wandered into a hornets’ nest unaware,” mused Dugal, shaking his head at the wild caprices of fortune.
“That you did, brother.”
Brynach, frowning under the oppressive weight this distressing knowledge produced in him, lifted woeful eyes to me. “So we are hastening to Byzantium to warn the emperor,” he concluded.
“To warn the emperor, yes,” I agreed, and added, “but also to bring Nikos to justice. I mean to confront him with his crimes and see him die the death he so richly deserves.”
“What if you cannot reach the emperor?” Dugal wondered. “We were many days waiting to see him, and sure, we never did.”
“We have the amir with us,” I reminded him. “The emperor will be more than eager to meet with the man who can deliver peace with the Arabs. If we can but keep Lord Sadiq alive, the basileus will see us, never fear; and what is more, once he sees the governor’s letter he will believe us.” I saw no reason to mention my own pledge to bring word to the basileus, who would be more than eager to hear what I had to tell him.
Later, we left the shaded grove and moved out once more, some riding, most walking, silent as the shadows stretching along the road: a curious karwán, made up of horses and camels, lithe Sarazens and lumbering Sea Wolves, Christians and Muhammedans, veiled Kazimain and bearded Irish monks, the stricken amir in his swaying sling, and Faysal and myself walking side by side, leading the ungainly company. We had not been joined together by choice: our unlikely allegiance had been formed by circumstance and fate—kismet, the Arabs called it—but was no less strong for that.
Though the sun was still hot, the air was beginning to lose its heat. By the time the far hills turned purple in the dusky light, night’s chill had begun seeping into the land. We journeyed through starlit night, silently, wrapped in our cloaks for warmth—only to cast them off again when the sun spread the eastern sky with its blood-red glow. When the heat-blast became unbearable, we sheltered in whatever shade we could find, thus completing the circle.
Each day was a duplicate of the one before—save that the land began to change as the hills became rough and craggy, the valleys deeper and more narrow. Though I saw Kazimain daily, we spoke infrequently, and then only about the amir’s precarious condition; it occupied her every thought. She wore her worry well, bearing up with admirable fortitude; even so, the journey exacted its price. With each passing day, the distance between us grew the more. Concerns of my own prevented me from crossing the divide; I confess I did but stand aside and watch that gap increase.
Then we reached the place I dreaded most—where the road passed beneath high cliffs and the emperor’s envoy had been ambushed.
Little remained of that iniquitous outrage and the bloody butchery that followed; I suppose anything of value had long since been scavenged by other travellers on this road. Even so, a few signs persisted: the ragged heaps of rock along the cliffside where scores lay buried, killed in their unsuspecting sleep; haphazard scatterings of sun-bleached bones picked clean by bird and beast; a few broken spears, and a battered shield or two. That was all. Little enough, as I say, to mark the magnitude of the tragedy.
Though the days remained bright, a thick soul-hugging gloom settled over me. While all around me moved in sun-dazzling brilliance, I walked in winter bleak and grey. Over the next days, I thought about the ambush, all that had gone before, and all that had come after. I dreamed of reprisal and justice; more, I dreamed of satisfaction: eye for eye, flesh for flesh, life for life.
Into this desert melancholy, the dead bishop’s words came back to me: All flesh is grass, Brother Aidan. But so immersed was I in my dreams of vengeance, that I could discern no meaning to the riddle. Eating little, sleeping less, I thought of nothing and no one save myself and the fearful retribution I held within my grasp.
All else dwindled to insignificance against the all-consuming hunger for revenge. When at last the walls of Trebizond appeared on the plain below us—and beyond the city the clean blue sweep of the sea, glittering in the early-morning light—that craving was honed keen and sharp as a blade in the gut.
What is more, I felt well-armed and ready to strike. True, returning to Constantinople might mean my own death—it was a possibility I had not forgotten—but I no longer cared. Despite my vision and previous apprehension, I wanted nothing more than to see Nikos on his knees begging for his worthless life before the disembowelling spear. Beside that, my own demise was of no account. If I perished, so be it. I meant to collect the blood debt for those who had been so brutally slaughtered.
67
Since our presence in Trebizond was impossible to hide, I attempted to make our appearance both brief and unassuming. We would linger in the city only so long as it took to provision the ships. Once aboard, we would sail immediately—thereby thwarting any interference from the duplicitous magister and his unseen minions. Accordingly, I held counsel with Jarl Harald to discuss how this might be accomplished.
“Before anyone knows to stop us, we will be gone,” Harald said confidently; he had regained his former bluff manner, if not his entire strength. The Danes are a sturdy race; hardship seems only to make them stronger. Harald and his men had recovered from the privations of slavery wonderfully well; they were almost completely restored and eager as I was to return to Constantinople. “I will go to the harbour and make the necessary preparations. When I send word, you come and we will sail at once.”
“What if the ships are not there anymore?” I asked. Never once did Harald display the slightest doubt, but insisted his ships would still be waiting for his return and that the crews would be ready. While I wondered at his simple faith, he laughed at my unbelief.
“You will see,” Harald said, and chose men to go with him. They were soon lost in the early-morning bustle and crush of people making their way into the city. Meanwhile, I explained our plans to Faysal. “What if his ships are not there any longer?” Faysal wondered, scanning the crowded road uneasily.
“Harald says his men would starve to death before they would abandon their king.”
“They are so loyal, these Wolves of the Sea?”
We settled ourselves outside the city gates to wait, hoping Harald’s trust in his men was not woefully misplaced. The king had been absent a long time, after all. But before the sun had passed midday, one of the Danes returned. “The ships are soon sea-ready. Jarl Harald says come to the harbour now.”
Trebizond appeared exactly as we had left it; nothing had changed—which surprised me somewhat, for I felt a lifetime had passed since I had last threaded my way through the narrow streets to the harbour. This time, however, I was painfully aware of the attention we were attracting, and feared that the city’s soldiers would appear at any moment to challenge us; but we passed unhindered, and proceeded directly to the wharf where the four longships lay at anchor.
Once there, we were greeted warmly by the Danes, forty-four in all, who had stayed behind. Gunnar stood on the quayside with happy tears streaming down his face, while his friends pounded him joyfully on the back. Sure, I too was overcome by the sight of Tolar and Thorkel and the rest, looking much the same as the day we had left them on the wharf. While the world had turned through its three seasons they had stood at their duty and guarded the dragon-headed ships against the expectation of their king’s imminent return: an exemplary feat of pure childlike faith.
The Sea Wolves’ jubilation at the appearance of their king and comrades was nothing beside their amazement at the wealth the Jarl brought with him. Their rejoicing, however, was soon swallowed in the feverish rush to board everyone and set off. We were, of
course, forced to abandon the horses and camels; Faysal chose three men to stay behind and look after the animals, charging them to establish camp outside the walls and await the amir’s return.
“They are so loyal, these rafiq?” I asked, turning his question back on him.
“Allah willing, they will wait until their beards grow to touch the ground,” he replied.
“And then?”
“They will shave, and wait some more.”
What with his crew so brutally decimated, Harald no longer commanded enough Sea Wolves to man four ships, and had been forced to the onerous expediency of hiring seamen to help man the ships—Greek fishermen, mostly, who agreed to go to Constantinople where they could find work on other ships. He hired fifty-three, and would have taken more, but there were no more to be had at any price.
As soon as the last water cask was lashed to its companions, and the last of the rafiq scrambled aboard, the Sea Wolves took up their long oars and pushed away from the wharf. As the wind was favourable, Harald ordered the handsome red-and-white banded sails to be raised while the ships were still in harbour. Although such practice was certain to draw the harbour master’s condemnation, the jarl cared nothing for that, thinking only to get away as swiftly as possible. Thus, in less time than it takes to tell it, the four longships sped from Trebizond like wild geese loosed after lengthy captivity.
Harald, glad to be his own master once more, took his place at the sternpost and commanded Thorkel, the pilot, to steer a course that kept us far from sight of land. I asked him if this unaccustomed caution arose from fear of Sarazen pirates, but he spat and said, “The emperor owes me much silver for my pains, and the sooner we reach Miklagård, the sooner I will be paid.”
I could but marvel at the audacity of the man. Even after all that had happened, he still considered himself in the emperor’s employ, and meant to collect his wages. Nor had he forgotten the debt Nikos owed him—an account he meant to collect in blood.
The tented platform behind the mast, where Harald was wont to keep his treasure, became the amir’s sickbed. As soon as we departed the harbour, I went to see how he fared. Faysal and Ddewi had hung the amir’s sling between the mast and one of the supports of the platform; Sadiq lay covered only by a cloth of the lightest material. He seemed peacefully asleep, and if not for the white band swathing his head instead of his customary turban, he might merely have been a man taking a well-deserved rest.
“There is little change,” Kazimain informed me when I asked. She appeared haggard, her eyes dull and her skin pallid; her lips were dry and cracked. The journey and its consequent demands of caring for her stricken kinsman had used her cruelly.
“Has he woken?”
Not trusting her voice, she merely shook her head.
“The worst is behind us,” I said, trying to comfort her. “He can rest for a time now—at least until we reach Constantinople.”
At this, Ddewi raised his head and regarded me with interest. “How long?” he asked. The question, though simple, surprised me; it was the first time I had heard him speak since escaping the mines.
“No fewer than twelve days,” I answered. “Thorkel says if the wind stays fair, we shall make good time.”
“Twelve days,” he mused, returning his gaze to the amir’s unmoving form. “That is good.”
Kazimain noticed my look of mild surprise, and smiled. “Yes,” she said, “he speaks now. No doubt, you have been too busy to notice.”
“I am sorry, Kazimain. If I have seemed preoccupied, it is not—”
“Shhh,” she soothed. “I did not speak so to rebuke you, my love. I know your thoughts are elsewhere.”
She returned to her duty, and I curled myself into the curve of the bow to take a nap. No sooner had I closed my eyes, however, than Harald’s bellow roused me. “That one may be trouble,” he said, pointing to a square red sail visible against the buff-coloured hills. Another ship with a blue-and-white striped sail could be seen moving eastward along the coast, following the established sea path.
“Perhaps he will turn aside when he reaches deeper water,” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” agreed Harald doubtfully. “We must keep our eyes on him, I think. He is very fast, that one.”
The red ship did not turn into the sea lane when he reached deep water; he proceeded on steadily, following our wake, seemingly content to hold back as the distant hills dwindled behind us. Harald read this as a bad omen. “He is waiting until we are out of sight of land,” Harald said. “Then he will make his move. We have a little time yet to prepare.”
Signalling to the other three ships, Harald brought them nearer so that we sailed more closely together. He ordered all the provisions to be lashed down and secured, and for weapons to be placed at the ready. The Sea Wolves placed their shields along the rails, which served to raise the sides of the ships and so better protect those inside. Spears were set upright in the leather oar holders between the shields, ready at hand.
My brother monks saw the activity and asked what it meant. I told them about the red ship, saying, “Harald thinks they may be pirates.”
“I think he is right,” Dugal agreed. “The ship that attacked us on the way to Trebizond had red sails, too.”
“We will pray to God for deliverance,” Bryn said staunchly. Dugal regarded the spears thoughtfully.
“You would be better employed,” I advised, “praying to the wind that it does not fail.”
The red ship drew ever nearer—until we could see the narrow prow plainly above the sea swell. Then she slackened her pace to match our own, hanging back what seemed a respectful distance, her master exercising obvious caution. “What does he want, this one?” mused Harald aloud, cupping his hands to his eyes to shield them from the sun-glare. “Why does he wait?”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “he is simply a merchant who wishes to travel in our company.”
“And perhaps he is waiting for his friends,” the jarl replied contemptuously. “We are four against one, after all.”
By day’s end the red ship had come no closer, neither had she altered her course by so much as a hair. She kept her distance through the night, and when morning came the red sail was still in place. With the dawn came a more forceful breeze, blowing out of the southwest. Thinking to increase the distance between ourselves and the red ship, Harald altered the course slightly to take advantage of the fresh wind.
The longships leapt forward at once, and very soon the red ship was seen to be growing smaller. “We are leaving them behind!” shouted Dugal. “Praise God!”
Faysal was of the same opinion and looked upon the dwindling red sail as an auspicious sign. I could not help noticing, however, that none of the Sea Wolves shared this optimistic view. Not even when the strange ship disappeared from view completely, did they relax their vigilance. Since they were masters of seacraft and warfare, I allowed my mood to be guided by their example, and remained wary.
Harald’s manoeuvre gained us a space of peace—at least, once the sail disappeared we did not see the red ship again the rest of that day, nor the following night. All day long, we anxiously scanned the horizon for any sign of the red ship, but saw nothing. It seemed that the monk’s prayers had done their work.
Night was far gone when the moon finally rose, and Harald sent a man up the mast to watch the horizon. I dozed at the prow, half-awake, listening for the warning cry from the mast-top. It came at dawn, when the Sea Wolf called down from his perch that he saw the red once more. We gathered at the rail and gazed into the dawn-misted distance, waiting to sight the tell-tale spot on the horizon.
Alas, when it came into view, it was not one ship only this time; it was two. The call came down from the mast lookout: “Two ships! I see two!”
We leaned over the rail, each holding his breath, straining for a glimpse. In a little while, we were able to confirm the lookout’s observation: two sails—one ahead, and one slightly behind and to the right of the first—emerged from the
sea haze. As midday approached, it became clear that they pursued a course directly towards us. By evening, despite Harald Bull-Roar’s best efforts, they had gained on us.
“They are done with waiting,” Gunnar mused, his face glowing in the last of a golden dusk. He and Tolar, inseparable now that they were reunited, had come to stand beside me as I looked out at the relentlessly approaching vessels. “Now they will catch us if they can.”
“Can we outrun them?” I asked.
“Nay,” Gunnar said, shaking his head slowly. “That is what we have been trying to do all day. They are very fast, these small ships.” He looked at the pirate vessels, now running a short way to the west of our close-clustered fleet. “But never fear, Aeddan,” he added reassuringly, “we still outnumber them. If they try to attack, we can easily divide them. It is a difficult thing to board four longships at once, I think—even for Arab pirates.”
Forced to bow to the Sea Wolves’ superior wisdom, I thought to inform Kazimain of our position, and was surprised when Ddewi emerged to summon me. “The amir has awakened,” he said, smiling with quiet excitement. “He is asking for you.”
“Indeed?” Following Ddewi into the tented enclosure, I found the amir talking quietly to Kazimain. The days aboard ship had been good for him, it seemed. He had been able to sleep in peace without being continually jostled by horses and awakened at every turn.
“Greetings, Lord Sadiq!” I exclaimed upon entering, “I am glad to see you awake. Ddewi tells me you are feeling better.”
“Truly,” he replied. “Allah willing, I shall soon feel strong enough to take up my sword and do battle with the sea raiders.”
“Ah, that is why I came,” I said, settling myself just inside the entrance; Kazimain and Ddewi shifted aside to allow me room to sit, “but I see you have heard already.”
“The walls of my palace are cloth,” he said, raising a hand limply to the tented enclosure; “it would have been more surprising if I had not heard.” He paused, and licked his lips. Ddewi, alert to his needs, instantly produced a cup of water; the amir waved it aside. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, but his gaze direct. “The attack—when will it come?”
Byzantium Page 67