‘And what if the Franks are both successful and dishonest?’
Michael smiled, and eased himself down on the marble parapet surrounding the pool. ‘An Emperor’s mind has many eyes and is ever-vigilant. As a token of his faith with the Franks, the Emperor will send an army of his own to aid them. A small force, but enough to report it if the Franks forget their oaths. The council has appointed Tatikios to command it.’
I sighed, sensing this was more than gossip. ‘Then the Emperor will not need to drag me across Cappadocia and the Anatolics protecting him. I shall say a dozen prayers of gratitude tonight.’
‘Save your prayers: you will soon have greater need of them.’ The humour was gone from Michael’s young face. ‘The Emperor desires you to accompany Tatikios, to serve as his scribe and to report back all you see. They are wild dogs, these barbarians, and the Emperor hunts with them at his peril. He will need swift warning if they turn on him.’
‘And if they turn on me?’
Michael grimaced. ‘While they are hungry, they will obey the hand that feeds them. But if they meet with success, and can feed their appetites themselves – then, Demetrios, be on your guard.’
‘I fear, my lord, that under the present circumstances success remains as impossible as ever. If you are unable at this time to join us, then I beg you give me leave to return to the queen of cities immediately. I can accomplish nothing while these barbarians quarrel and thwart—’
Save for the rasping of my pen and the drone of Tatikios’ voice, the tent had been quiet; now he broke off as urgent voices sounded at the door. I heard the Patzinak outside issue a challenge, and a loud reply which was too fast and foreign to understand. In a moment, the flap was pulled open and the guard’s face appeared with the draught of cold air.
‘Your pardon, General,’ he said gruffly.
Tatikios’ gold nose seemed to twitch in irritation. ‘Yes?’
‘The lord Bohemond demands to see you.’
?
I had seen the lord Bohemond many times since we had left Constantinople – debating at councils, leading raiding parties, walking the lines to rally his men – but every time it was as if I saw him anew. Partly it was the effect of his physique, for he stood a foot taller than most men, outstripping even Sigurd, with immense breadth in his shoulders and arms like a mangonel. His hair was cropped very short, and though like all the Franks he had abandoned the habit of shaving, his beard was trimmed close to the cheek. Yet it seemed that the elements of his body were not at one with each other, for his skin was mottled red and white, his hair brown but his beard russet. Only the pale blue eyes remained identical in their unyielding stare.
But it was not merely Bohemond’s physical aspect that drew men’s eyes. Whether by his strength or by some infernal blessing, he was possessed of an energy which no man could ignore. In a busy room, the loudest conversation clustered about him; in war, the fiercest fighting was at his standard. Though he dressed every inch the sober prince, his simple armour now worn over a wine-red tunic, he conveyed somehow a reckless, unpredictable air which seduced the affections of men and women alike. He had neither lands nor title, yet he had gathered an army which was the sinew of the campaign. After every battle his was the first name spoken, and in ever louder tones.
Tatikios was one of the few wholly immune to his charm. ‘I did not expect you, Lord Bohemond. Have the Turks surrendered the city?’
Bohemond gave an easy smile. Perhaps it was the way the rings of his mail caught the light, but the tent seemed brighter where he stood. ‘They will, General. Once we have our towers at their gates, the city will starve.’
‘No army has ever forced the city walls from without?’
‘No army has ever fought with the hand of God guiding them.’
‘You would be wise to offer the Lord the humility which is His due.’ The reflected lamp-light flickered on the eunuch’s nose, making it almost impossible to heed his words seriously. ‘So far He has visited only famine and pestilence on us.’
Bohemond shrugged. ‘I would not have it otherwise. What glory would we win marching with full bellies against armies of women? What glory would the
‘The glory of life preserved rather than wasted.’
‘The glory of an empire lost? When the Greeks have the strength to reclaim their own lands, when their King dares to lead his army without fear of falling into captivity, then you may extol the Greek way to me.’
The discipline of a lifetime in the palace kept Tatikios’ smooth face impassive. Indeed, I thought I glimpsed a smile on his lips. ‘As you say, we Byzantines are a feeble nation, scarce able to master an army of children. Doubtless your father said the same twenty years ago as he defecated out his life on Kephalonia, once we had destroyed his fleet and driven his army into the sea.’
Bohemond went very still, all the more striking for his usual unceasing momentum. The contrasts of his skin seemed to heighten, like an alloy heated in the fire, and his fingers scratched at his sword hilt. ‘There are some matters that you would do well to forget, eunuch, far from home as you are and surrounded by warriors ten times your strength. My father was worth a legion of your Greeks – and had you challenged him on the battlefield, rather than corrupting his allies with gold and lies, he would have walked across the Adriatic on your corpses.’
‘Of course,’ said Tatikios. ‘But history should not stand between allies.’ He clapped his hands, and a slave appeared from behind one of the folds of the tent. ‘Wine for the lord Bohemond?’
‘No.’
‘As you wish. What brings you unsummoned to my tent tonight? What do you want of me?’
The vigour was returning to Bohemond’s body. He stared down on Tatikios through narrowed eyes. ‘You presume too much. I did not come to discuss anything with you, eunuch, but with your servant.’
Visibly confused, Tatikios looked to the slave who still waited in the corner. He seemed about to speak, but a soft laugh from Bohemond checked him.
‘Not your slave; your scribe. Demetrios Askiates. Alone.’
The air outside was cold, sharp after the warmth of the tent, but the pace I needed to keep up with Bohemond drew heat into my limbs. He seemed impervious to all discomfort and danger: few Franks would have ventured into our camp without a troop of guards at their backs, thinking us little better than craven traitors, but he walked alone, his arms bared beyond the short sleeves of his tunic. My breath emerged in clouds as we strode between the lines of tents, heading gradually up the slope towards the northern arm of the mountain, and somewhere to my left I heard the melancholy notes of a lyre plucking at the night.
Gradually the tents thinned and the soft ground grew harder. We passed through the pickets and climbed to a stony outcrop on the side of the hill. Looking down, I could see the campfires of our army strung out in an enormous arc, and the torches on the watchtowers mirroring it. The moon shone through a tear in the clouds and illuminated the city cupped between the mountain and the flames. I seated myself on a cold rock beside Bohemond, and for a moment we gazed at the scene in silence.
‘From here, you could almost forget the suffering among those fires,’ Bohemond said at last.
‘Indeed, Lord.’
He looked at me. ‘I will be honest with you, Demetrios. The army is close to collapse. Perhaps your general was right – perhaps we have tempted God’s patience too long in this place.’
‘God’s purpose is inscrutable, Lord.’
He did not seem to notice my words. ‘Nor is it even the Turks who will be our downfall. We weaken ourselves too much with unnecessary strife. Provencal against Norman, Lotharingian against Fleming – even, I confess, Norman against Greek, when our past quarrels are resurrected.’
Puzzling that he should bring me to this remote place to mourn the failings of his allies, I murmured something vague about our fellowship in the body of Christ. Again, I was ignored.
‘How can we fight as one while we divide ourselves with a host of petty allegiances? You cannot conduct a
