Knights of the Cross

The boy, still on his knees, stared around in terror. ‘We must find them,’ he mumbled, biting a knuckle until the finger turned white. ‘We must avenge my master.’

‘We must get back to the camp,’ I snapped. I had seen scores of men die similar deaths – many worse – since we left Constantinople; I would not join their number in this lonely place. Night was drawing in from the east, and the rocky walls of the hollow grew evil with shadow.

‘But we will take his body,’ I added. Soon the night’s carrion-eaters would emerge, and the body would become more terrible still if we left it behind.

Sigurd must have shared my thoughts, for he made no complaint as the Varangians formed a rough stretcher from their axe-hafts under the corpse and bore it back to the city. The darkness was complete by the time we reached our lines, and nervous sentries challenged us at every step. Our Byzantine camp was at the north-eastern walls, just behind the Normans of Sicily, and we must have passed through more than a mile of tents and pavilions, of makeshift paddocks, blacksmiths, farriers, fletchers, and armourers, all lit in the irregular glimmer of innumerable campfires. Gaunt faces on swollen bodies begged for food, money or compassion; haggard women asked after lost lovers, or sought new ones; children clawed each other in vicious sport, as the Army of God prepared for the night.

I chose a path which skirted the edge of the Norman encampment, for I did not wish to walk through their midst with one of their dead. Among them were too many veterans of their wars against us, and a Greek carrying a Norman body might be too obvious a provocation.

The boy, who had lagged behind us, now tugged on my arm. ‘Where shall I go?’

I looked into his forlorn eyes. ‘To your master’s tent. Were there any family who accompanied him?’

The boy shook his head, sniffling. ‘A brother, but he died on the march.’

‘Any other companions? Others of Melfi?’

‘Three knights who shared his tent.’

‘Then tell them that we have his body for safe keeping. They may come and claim it from us for burial.’

If we could find space in this land for yet another tomb.

After a meagre supper, I picked my way through the maze of cloth and ropes to a clearing in the heart of our camp where a single tent stood in dignified isolation. Its size, and the richness of its fabric, bespoke a noble occupant, yet it was the solitude and space around which were the true extravagance in that place. Two guards, squat Patzinaks from Thrace, stood by the torches which illuminated the door. They did not challenge me as I stepped inside.

Within the tent the luxury was greater still. Silk curtains of red and gold, woven through with images of eagles and saints, hung from the ceiling to form discreet partitions; thick carpets hid the mud under the floor, while oil lamps on silver tripods gave a steady light to the scene. In the centre of the room stood a broad chair of gilded ebony; behind it, on a stand, three candles burned before a triptych icon of Saints Mercurios, George and Demetrios, each on horseback and wielding his lance. I touched the silver cross that I wore on a chain about my neck and offered a silent prayer to my namesake.

The whisper of parting silks broke the stillness.

‘You are late, Demetrios Askiates,’ said a petulant voice.

I bowed my head. ‘There was a skirmish at the bridge, Lord. And afterwards I had to recover a Norman corpse.’

The general Tatikios stepped into the room and seated himself on the ebony chair. Though none would deny his knowledge of the lands of Asia, I doubted whether the Emperor could have chosen a commander more certain to rile the Frankish allies whom he had been sent to support. Against a race which wished death on any dark- skinned foreigner, Tatikios was a Turkopole, a half-breed whose Turkish blood was evident in his smooth, olive- shaded cheeks and dark eyes; where the Franks deemed headlong charge the only honourable form of war, Tatikios was a subtle tactician who judged any battle a failure of strategy. Worst, in the eyes of men who worshipped brute manhood, Tatikios was a eunuch. And deformed elsewhere, too, for he had lost his nose in combat and now wore a sharp-edged golden prosthesis, giving him something of the aspect of a haughty bird of prey. The barbarians thought him a freak, an effeminate clown, and treated him accordingly. As his nominal servant, I owed more deference.

‘Take a pen,’ he commanded. ‘I must write to the Emperor.’

I did not argue that it would be easier to wait until daylight, for Tatikios, like so many in power, thought only of his own convenience. Nor did I argue that I was not in truth his scribe, for it served both our interests that he should treat me so. I sat down on a stool, hunched by its low height, and took the ivory writing desk from under it. The reed pen was slight between my callused fingers, and I feared that I might snap it merely by touching the paper.

‘To his most serene holy majesty, the Basileus and Autokrator, the Emperor of the Romans Alexios Komnenos: greetings from his servant Tatikios.’

The eunuch frowned to see that my pen could not keep pace with his tongue.

‘The situation at Antioch worsens daily, and is almost intolerable. In the past month, since the Franks defeated the emir of Damascus in battle, their arrogance and insolence has surpassed all bounds. Your noble army and her general are reviled by these barbarians; they speak openly of foreswearing their oaths to you and seizing the land which is owed you for themselves. Now that the winter is past, I urge your holy majesty to hasten to our aid, to take up the leadership of this quest which is rightfully your own and to force the barbarians to obey your commands.’

The air in the tent, heated by its oil lamps and its brazier, was warm about me. As Tatikios continued to speak the sinews between my ear and my hand seemed to dissolve, so that I wrote his words unthinkingly. Released from the moment, my mind turned back eleven months and countless miles, back to spring in the great palace of the city.

‘The Emperor will not go.’

I was standing in one of the lesser courtyards, its pillars wreathed in green ivy. A shallow pool in its centre reflected the clouds of the uncertain sky above, while a bronze Herakles looked down in silence. My companion had just joined me from the hall within and still wore the ceremonial camisia with its gold lion’s-head clasp, and a robe set with many jewels. It might have seemed cumbersome on his young frame, but with the confidence of his stature, and the untroubled certainty in his eyes, he wore it easily. His name was Michael, and the rumour in the palace was that few knew the Emperor’s mind as well as he.

‘The Emperor will not accompany the barbarian army to Asia,’ he elaborated. ‘The council has decided it. He will send gold, and food and men – but not his person.’

I nodded slowly. I had not expected to be summoned to the palace that afternoon, certainty not to hear the outcome of the Emperor’s deliberations. I had not thought that they would concern me.

‘The empire would not benefit. It would be imprudent for him to abandon his capital when his duties demand so much attention. Especially after the tragic loss of his chamberlain.’

I met Michael’s guarded smile, acknowledging the deeper truths behind his words. We both knew why the Emperor could not leave the queen of cities, and it had nothing to do with gathering taxes or attending the business of government. If he absented himself from the throne of power there would be many swift to claim it for themselves, and he would not be the first Emperor returning to the city to find it barred against him.

‘The wise emperor holds the rudder of righteousness against waves of injustice and lawlessness,’ I quoted.

Michael laughed. ‘The wise emperor holds tight to the arms of his throne lest he be swept away.’

‘And will he allow a hundred thousand Franks to march across our lands in Asia, trusting in their oath to restore their conquests to him?’ I had seen the Franks swear it in the great cathedral of Ayia Sophia; rarely had I witnessed an oath that its professors would more readily abjure.

‘He will allow the Franks to march across the Turkish lands of Asia,’ Michael corrected me. ‘If they are successful, and honest, he will gain. If they are unsuccessful, he will have no part of it – he will not become another Diogenes Romanus, tempted into battle too far from home and made captive.’

‘While the loss of a hundred thousand Franks and Normans will not sorrow him too greatly,’ I suggested.

‘When you make allies of your enemies, every battle is a victory.’

I picked a pebble off the ground and tossed it into the pool, sending waves rippling across the reflected sky.