just risen from his bed, while beneath it the skin was as cold and pale as ever. Baldwin, I remembered, the unlanded brother of Duke Godfrey.
He slipped from his horse and crossed to his brother, a triumphant smile on his face. He spoke brashly and quickly, waving his arms towards his captives and directing his words as much to the crowd as to his brother. He spoke in Frankish, but there was little misunderstanding the vicious exultation in his voice. He seemed to be pressing some sort of argument, for several times the duke interrupted him sharply, but the mind of the crowd was clearly with Baldwin. When he addressed them directly they cheered and applauded, while when he jabbed his finger at his brother they whistled and jeered.
They must have agreed on something, though, for at length Baldwin leaped down off the platform and advanced towards us.
‘No doubt he comes to tell us how much our ransom will be,’ I whispered to Sigurd. ‘Did you understand any of what was said?’
Sigurd shook his head, the agony of surrender still plain on his face.
Without waiting for a translator, nor making any effort to discover which of us was the leader, the barbarian captain approached the nearest of the Patzinaks. The guard’s arm was bleeding, gashed by a spear, but he lifted his chin and drew back his shoulders as Baldwin stopped and stared haughtily down on him. He let his head drift away, then snapped it back and spat full on the Patzinak’s face. The Patzinak flinched, but otherwise kept still, while Baldwin grinned around at the approving crowd, accepting the murmur of agreement which greeted him. He was still facing them, still grinning, while his hand dropped to his sword-belt. And the grin never left his face as he spun about, pulled his sword from its scabbard and, in a single arc, sliced it across the Patzinak’s throat. There was not even time for surprise to register on the murdered guardsman’s face before he was dead on the ground. Blood began spreading across the stones around his body.
A roar of jubilation erupted from the crowd, and Baldwin gave a mock bow, wiping his blade on the dead man’s sleeve. His brother looked on with silent disdain, but he could not defy the mob whose cheering only grew as Baldwin took two exaggerated steps towards the next Patzinak. His blade hovered before the man’s face, darting left and right; then, as the guard tried to duck from its path he reversed the sword and stabbed it into the man’s leg. The guard howled with pain and doubled over, presenting his neck to Baldwin’s hungry blade. He probably did not even see the blow which killed him.
I closed my sickened eyes, then reopened them and looked to Sigurd. ‘We cannot endure this,’ I hissed. ‘He will murder us all for sport, if the crowd do not tear us apart first. We must escape.’
‘You said we would be worth more as hostages than corpses.’ I had never heard such bitterness as was now in Sigurd’s voice.
‘I was wrong. But if we are to die, we should die on our feet. And if we can avoid it altogether. .’
There must have been four score of us captive in that forum, and Baldwin’s barbarity had kindled the same determination in every soul. Now one of the Patzinaks acted. Refusing to be a willing sacrifice, he charged towards the edge of the square where the crowd was thinnest. The knight there raised his sword to chop him down, but the Patzinak ducked away under the horse and escaped it. I saw his hands grasp the barbarian’s leg and start to pull, while his shoulder must have collided with the beast’s ribs for it reared up on its hind legs, unseating its rider. He fell to the ground with a cry of terror, and in an instant his sword was in the hands of the Patzinak, who lunged towards the crowd with a great shout of defiance.
Desperation filled my lungs. ‘Now,’ I shouted. I snatched Sigurd’s arm and pointed to our right: as the Frankish cavalry and their rabble surged forward to stop the lone Patzinak, a gap had appeared in their cordon. I sprinted towards it with Sigurd close behind, crushed my fist into the single man who barred my way, and stuck my knee into his groin to be certain. He collapsed from my path. More cries and shouts sounded from behind me as Sigurd cracked and shattered the limbs of those who tried to stop him.
We were free, but I could hear the noise of many footsteps running after me. Whether they were barbarian pursuers or Patzinaks who had followed us out I could not tell and dared not look, but they pushed me on up a thin alley away from the forum, away from the confused commotion of the Frankish mob. I ran past the first two roads which turned off my path, swerved into the third and ducked immediately down another lane, hoping it would not prove a dead end, for the sounds of pursuit were everywhere about me. It was empty, but would not be so for long, and with so many barbarians we could not keep running around this maze for ever. I saw a crooked shed leaning against the wall of a house and made for its door, praying to my God that it would not be locked, while Sigurd pushed past me, scanning for any enemies approaching ahead.
The door resisted my first touch, but a frantic kick broke through the rust on its hinges and it swung open. I turned to call Sigurd back, for here we could wait until the barbarians passed, but the shout died in my throat.
A barbarian had found me. He stood behind me watching curiously, almost lazily, though there was nothing the least slack in his arms and shoulders. The blade he held at my neck did not tremble an inch.
25
He had both grown and withered in the last two months. His beard was now full, though still close to the chin, and hunger had chiselled away at his face to reveal the man beneath. But he was thin, far thinner than after weeks of the monks’ hospitality, and if work had kept his arms and legs hard with sinew it had also stooped his back a little. What had it done to his spirit?
He seemed unsure what to say, but this was no time for long silences. ‘Are you going to kill me, Thomas? Or turn me over to that demon Baldwin to be dismembered?’
‘You are the enemy of my people,’ he said harshly.
‘I am your friend. I saved you from death, once, you remember.’
‘You tied me up like a thief.’
‘And then set you free.’
I saw the tip of his sword decline just a fraction before his arm stiffened again. ‘You are the enemy of my people. You try to starve and kill us.’
‘Will you orphan my daughters because we serve different masters?’
The mention of orphanhood must have bitten his conscience, for he went very still, and suddenly the eyes which stared at me seemed to be those of a child again. I thought to say more, to evoke his own parents, but I did not want to twist the knife of memory too far. He would not have forgotten them, I told myself: if their loss could sway him, then it would be so, and if not, then I would die.
‘I do this for your daughter,’ he whispered at last. ‘And because you save my life.’
‘Thank you.’ I could hear more shouts, and the echo of horses’ hooves drawing near. ‘Can you help me get to the harbour? To find a boat?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘No boats. The Greeks take them all. And my people look for you there. Go away. Go up to your friend on the hill.’
Panic and incomprehension stalled my mind for a moment, before I realised whom he meant. ‘The merchant Domenico? You mean him? Is he still there?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘I see him sometimes. He help you.’
That was something I would discover myself. I had not seen the merchant Domenico since before the Feast of the Nativity, and he was closer in kin to the barbarians than to the Romans. But Thomas spoke truthfully of the alternatives: the Emperor
‘Will you lead us?’
Thomas did not answer, but turned his back on me and began moving up the street at a half-run. I followed with Sigurd, who had watched my conversation with Thomas in silence.
‘Do you trust him?’ he whispered as we approached the corner.
‘I would not choose to trust him. But it is not my choice to make.’
‘It may still be the wrong choice. We should have knocked him down and left him in a corner. Then at least we would have had a sword.’
