whose spoils they were. Tancred, invoking the precedence of nobility, claimed them for himself, while Sigurd bluntly reminded him what we had achieved while the Normans had been cowering in the trees. In the end, as voices rose and swords edged from their scabbards, I forced them to agree that we would take only as many mounts as we needed for ourselves, and let Bohemond adjudge the final division.
Though I was never a natural horseman, it was a blessing at last to have a beast to carry me. The long day in hostile lands, the trials of the pagan cave, and finally the murderous terror of battle had drained the strength from me, so I was content to slump in the saddle, my legs hanging loose, and let the horse walk me home. The Turkish prisoners we had taken, five of them, straggled behind us under the gaze of the Varangians.
At the ford we encountered more horsemen. Tancred spurred to meet them, churning a foamy path through the water, and greeted them as friends. Drawing near, letting the river ride up over my boots, I heard them exchange greetings in the Norman tongue.
‘You have returned safely, praise God,’ said one. ‘Three hours ago, we saw a company of Turks ride out from the St George gate. We feared you might meet them. An hour since, they returned, fewer in number.’
‘We met them,’ Tancred said. ‘And by the grace of God, we taught them that there is not one inch of this land where they can walk in safety. But how did they know to seek us? We left last night, and travelled in the dark.’
‘The enemy has many spies,’ the Norman offered.
It seemed more likely that they had seen our company of Varangians leaving in the morning, but I did not say so.
‘Too many spies,’ Tancred agreed. ‘And even now they may be watching.’ His stare seemed to settle on me. ‘We had best hurry on to the camp. Doubtless my uncle will want to know of my victory.’
We rode on, dismounting to lead our horses across the boat bridge and continuing along the well-worn path around the walls. As the crowds thickened near the camps, Sigurd had to order his men to close ranks around the Turkish prisoners, in an effort to ward off the jeers and mud and stones that the Franks hurled at them. Several times I felt my shield shiver with the impact of pebbles, and I had to stroke my horse’s neck to calm her skittish nerves. The laughter of the Normans ahead did nothing to dim the taunts.
We halted in the forlorn square of mud which served as the Norman exercise ground. Bohemond was waiting there atop his white warhorse, surrounded by a clutch of his household knights.
‘You have been in battle,’ he said coolly, his gaze darting over Tancred’s depleted company.
‘We encountered a troop of Turks,’ Tancred answered. There was still that wheedling petulance in his voice which, despite his broad frame and high charger, made him sound like a child. ‘When we gave chase, they led us into a trap. It was only by ferocious effort that we escaped it. We captured two dozen of their horses,’ he added, sensing that his story had inspired little avuncular pride.
‘How many did you lose?’
‘Eight,’ Tancred admitted.
‘Horses?’
‘Men.’ He paused, blushing. ‘Eleven horses. But I have made good the deficit, uncle. And I cannot be blamed for our losses when spies and traitors infest our camp. They knew to expect us there – and they laid their trap accordingly.’
‘Fool.’ Bohemond trotted forward until his mount was beside Tancred’s, then reached out of his saddle and slapped his nephew across the cheek. ‘A hunter may set a snare, but he cannot force his quarry to spring it. For that, he relies on the animal’s own brute stupidity.’ He kicked his horse away and stared at the Varangians. ‘And if you fought so valiantly to rout your enemy, why is it Greeks who carry the spoils and guard the prisoners?’
Tancred chose to ignore the question. ‘Why, after five months in this cursed place, are the Turks still free to ride in and out of their city as they please, and to swamp our camp with their spies?’
Bohemond looked in scorn on his nephew. ‘First learn to fight a skirmish, and leave wiser heads to govern the war. As to the spies, we will see what your prisoners can tell us of that.’
‘
‘While your nephew cowered behind a pine tree,’ Sigurd added, unhelpfully.
Tancred spat at him. ‘Because you were too cowardly to charge the Turks with us.’
Sigurd tapped a fist against the side of his helmet so that it rang like a bell. ‘Not cowardly – clever. Perhaps when you reach your manhood you will understand.’
‘Enough!’ Bohemond raised a fist to still us, his eyes pale with anger. ‘These prisoners will avail you nothing, Demetrios. Look at them – do you think they will command a penny’s ransom from the Turks? All they will bring you is five more mouths that you can ill afford to feed. Leave them with me, and I will see they are treated according to the laws of Christ.’
He spoke truthfully, at least as regarded their value, yet I was uneasy at consigning any man, even an Ishmaelite, to the care of the Normans. Sigurd growled a warning under his breath, while the five Turks looked on hopelessly, unable to understand the men who haggled over their fate. I caught one of them staring at me, his dark eyes wide with uncomprehending fear, and felt fresh qualms assail me.
But Bohemond would not be denied. Before I could forestall him, he had ordered his men to surround the prisoners and lead them away. A crowd of soldiers and pilgrims had gathered around the exercise ground, drawn to a quarrel like flies to a wound, and I dared not provoke any further fight. As the Turks disappeared between the tents, staring helplessly back at us, the most I could do was touch my chest where my cross hung – for the dozenth time that day, it seemed – and pray that they would be treated mercifully.
Sigurd watched them go. ‘It dishonours a man to be robbed of his prisoners,’ he said sourly.
‘It dishonours him worse to disobey his betters,’ Bohemond snapped.
‘When I meet a better man, I shall be sure to obey him.’
There was no profit in arguing further with the Normans. As ever, they gave the sense of men poised on a knife-edge, waiting for the least excuse to fall into a quarrel. Sigurd sent his company back to the camp with the horses, while he and I went in search of Quino and Odard. It seemed an age since we had stood in that pagan cave, with its blood-soaked floor and terrible altar, yet it had been only a few hours ago. Four Normans had entered that cave and only two still lived: I was eager to question the survivors before any further misfortune befell them.
The boy, Simon, was sitting outside the tent cradling a shield in his lap as he worked fat into the hide covering. For the briefest second, his eyes flickered up to greet us, then fixed back on his work.
‘Is your master present?’ I asked.
Without answering, he laid the shield on the grass and hurried through the canvas door. He did not reappear; when the flap opened again, it was Odard who emerged. Unlike most men, who had shrunk within their clothes in previous months, he seemed still too large for his tunic. It rode high above his knees and elbows, showing off limbs that were little more than bones.
‘Greek,’ he said, in his high, pecking voice. ‘You are not wanted here.’
‘Nor were the prophets in Israel – but they spoke words worth hearing.’ It was a response I had honed in many years of knocking on unwelcoming doors. It had yet to persuade anyone.
Odard’s head snapped twice to the left, as if something had surprised him, though I could see nothing. ‘The prophets of old spoke salvation. I have heard salvation. You, I think, bring only lies and spite.’
‘The prophets say: “You have forgotten the Lord your God, and made adoration of graven idols,”’ I said. ‘Does that not seem worthwhile to you?’
The tic of Odard’s head grew more pronounced, and I saw him flexing his fingers like claws. ‘I have not forgotten the Lord God,’ he protested. He pointed to his chest, where a cross of black cloth was sewn onto his tunic. ‘I live and walk in the name of Christ.’
‘And was it in the name of Christ that you uncovered a pagan temple, an evil place in the valley of Daphne?’
‘I have never—’
‘You were seen, Odard. You journeyed into the valley of sin, and your sin betrayed you. The harlots among whom you walked saw you. They saw you and your companions go down that hole with a bullock – what did you do then? Did you sacrifice it on the altar? Did you make a burnt offering to Baal, or Amun, or Zeus?’ Though I had chafed to escape my childhood in the monastery, it had at least left me a priest’s intimacy with scripture.
Odard recoiled, bunching his tunic in his hand where the cross was sewn. He would not meet my gaze, but sank his chin on his collar and gibbered nonsense to himself. At last, still not looking up: ‘They saw us go down to that hole, yes, and take the bullock too. But they did not see the truth of what we did there, did they?’ I could not
