over food, perhaps, or spoils? Or a woman?’
Simon’s gaze dropped again. ‘There was no quarrel.’
‘A disagreement?’ As he spoke, I had heard the sharp edges of words carefully chosen.
‘No.’
‘But there was some discord among them.’
‘There was . . . anger.’ Still refusing to meet my gaze, Simon reached up and pulled a piece of dried mud from his skin. It came away smooth as a scab.
‘Why?’
‘I do not know!’
I had grown so used to Simon’s mumbling and whispering that his sudden shout stunned me. The crow on the fish trap fluttered squawking into the air.
‘Five weeks ago they went to Daphne. They were gone all day. When they came back, they were different. They would not speak to each other, but cursed me for every straw that was out of place in their beds. I have never seen Quino so angry.’ Simon trembled as the torrent of words poured out of him. ‘After that day, they did not often come in the tent together. They ate apart, and chose different watches. I rarely saw Quino and Odard – that was good. Drogo found other friends.’
‘A swordsmith?’ I hazarded.
Simon looked at me curiously. ‘A swordsmith, yes. He was a Saracen, an Ishmaelite. It was another thing to make Quino angry.’
‘And they never spoke of what had passed at Daphne?’
‘Never. One or two times, I heard Rainauld mention a house of the sun. I think it was a place they had been that day, for always it drew the same silence from the others.’
‘“The house of the sun.” It meant nothing to you?’
‘Nothing.’
He paused, looking at the wilting herbs in his fist. ‘I should go back. Quino is not as good a master as Drogo.’
‘Come with me.’ I spoke on impulse: I did not know how I could pay the boy, and I could not even feed myself, but the pain in his face was more than I could ignore. I took his arm. ‘Come and serve me, and I will see you are kept safe from Quino’s rages.’
He shook free of my grasp. ‘I am bound to Quino. If I left him, he would think it a betrayal. His vengeance would be unforgiving. I must go.’
At that I wanted to snatch him by the shoulder and drag him away from the Normans. But I resisted the impulse. However miserable the fate he chose, I could not compel him. ‘A final question. Did you ever see a woman named Sarah visit Drogo?’
Simon’s head jerked up like a rabbit’s; his stare fixed on my face, then swiftly switched to my boots. ‘Never.’
He was lying, I was sure of it, but I could not in conscience risk causing more delay and provoking Quino’s wrath. I watched him run across the field, back towards the grey ranks of canvas, and wondered what malevolent power swayed the occupants of that cursed tent.
That evening I went to see Tatikios. The lamplight was bright on the gilded fabric of the room, but he was in a dark mood. He paced before his ebony chair, muttering to himself and constantly darting glances towards the door. In every corner a Patzinak stood holding a spear.
‘Demetrios,’ the eunuch snapped. ‘Did you see anyone outside the door?’
‘None worth remarking. Why?’
‘Bohemond came here. He warned that sentiment in the armies turns against us.’
Irreverently, I thought that Tatikios ought to find a goldsmith to recast his golden nose in a more imposing form. At present it only served to make him seem petulant.
‘The Franks have ever been jealous of our civilisation,’ I answered. ‘When the war goes amiss, it is natural that they blame us.’
‘My position is impossible.’ Tatikios had not paid me the least attention. ‘The barbarians blame me because the Emperor does not join their siege, but I can achieve nothing. With less than half a legion at my disposal I am forced to follow a strategy I did not recommend. And the Emperor is deaf to my pleas for aid.’
I thought back to the courtyard in the palace.
‘I am between Scylla and Charybdis,’ the eunuch continued. ‘And now Bohemond warns that the barbarians may purpose violence against us.’
‘Did he name any conspirators?’
‘No.’
‘Then it is nothing more than gossip. I walk daily through the Norman camps and I see the hatred they bear us. That does not mean they will slit our throats in our beds.’
Tatikios slumped into his chair. ‘This is no place for a general of Byzantium. I should be at the Emperor’s side in the queen of cities, or commanding great armies on the frontiers. Belisarios did not conquer Africa with three hundred mercenaries and a horde of murderous barbarians. Will my exploits here ever be carved on the great gate of the palace, or lofted high on a column? I do not think so.’
He fell into silence. After a minute to allow his self-pity free rein, I said: ‘I would like to take a troop of Varangians to Daphne tomorrow. There may be food there as yet untouched.’
Tatikios waved an arm dismissively. ‘As you wish, Demetrios. We will not need the men here. The city will not fall tomorrow, nor any other day if this course persists. Go to Daphne, if you will. I doubt that you will find anything.’
?
We had to walk to Daphne, Sigurd and I and a dozen Varangians, for our horses were too few and feeble to waste. We passed the new mound opposite the bridge, where two wooden towers had now risen on the rubble of the cemetery, and followed the Saint Simeon road south-west until we had left the city well behind us. By a plane tree a path forked down to the ford, and we splashed our way through the waist-deep water. The river was cold and urgent, harrying our steps and always threatening to dislodge our feet from the weed-green rocks, yet there was something pleasing in its eagerness. Though I was not thirsty, I stopped midstream where a boulder gave me purchase and scooped a palmful of water into my mouth. The chill trickling down my throat was exhilarating, though it stirred my stomach to fresh pangs of hunger.
As we climbed the slopes of the far shore, my mood sobered. None of the lands south of Antioch were safe, but the eastern bank of the Orontes especially was the preserve of the Turks. I had chosen a minimal company to escort me, for I had little confidence in my errand, but I regretted it ever more as we advanced down the empty road. The rising sun crossed our path so that we could see barely more than the stony ground at our feet, while the flashing bows of light from the Varangians’ axes would have acted as a clear beacon – or target – to any spies in the hills.
Sigurd, whose own axe twitched in his hands, gestured down the long valley to where the river now turned towards the sea. ‘It could be worse,’ he grunted. ‘The march from Dorylaeum – that was bad.’
It had been. For six weeks in high summer we had limped across the Anatolian highlands, chasing a beaten army which spoiled or destroyed every living thing in its path. Without food or water, men and beasts had died in unnumbered thousands, their bones left by the wayside because we were too weak to dig graves. We could not travel by night for fear of ambush so the July sun shrivelled our bodies as hard as olives, the sweat wrung from us until we could sweat no more. The jaws of cisterns gaped empty where the Turks had cracked them open; we lacerated our cheeks trying to chew the spiny bushes for moisture. My tongue had become like a splinter in my mouth, so dry that I had imagined I might snap it in two between my teeth. In the evenings we did not pitch camp but fell where we stopped. Not all of us rose in the mornings. Oxen became the steeds of lords, and dogs were our
