war by council. When my father went to war, he did not barter its course with his vassals: he commanded them.’ He rested his chin on his hand, and stared down again. ‘They tell me that you found the body of my liegeman, Drogo of Melfi.’
I felt a fresh pang of discomfort, and he must have sensed it for he touched my arm in reassurance. ‘No doubt there are some who would work mischief with that fact, but I am certain that you discovered him in innocence. Happenstance.’
‘His servant sought help. By chance, I was nearest.’
Bohemond straightened. ‘Even chance may have her purposes. That it should be you whom the boy found, and none other . . . How did Drogo’s death strike you?’
Unsettled by the sudden change of conversation, I fumbled for words. ‘A tragic loss, Lord – no doubt his comrades will mourn him deeply.’
‘No doubt – but you misunderstand me. How do you think he came to die?’
‘His throat was cut open. Probably by a sword, to judge by the depth of the wound.’
‘So they told me. A Turkish blade, you think?’
I hesitated. ‘I cannot say.’
‘But others will. If a man dies in battle, his friends honour him. If he dies unarmed and alone, far from his enemies, then they will suspect treachery – and will seek to avenge it. Already I can hear the whispers in my camp: that it was a Provencal, or a jealous rival, or a creditor – or even a Greek.’
I took the news in silence.
‘If these rumours are sustained, some in my army may strike precipitately against those they blame.’
‘I will pray for temperance.’
‘Pray rather for deliverance.’ Bohemond slid down from the rocky seat and turned to face me, blocking the moonlit city from my sight. ‘Now is the moment when we must unite under the banner of God, or fall divided by our folly. The fate of Drogo cannot be a wound which festers among us.’ He slapped his fist into the palm of his hand, startling a nearby owl into flight. ‘If we allow feuds to rise among us, we will become mere pickings for the Turkish scavengers.’
‘You could announce—’
‘There is nothing I can announce that will calm my men – nothing save the truth. That is our only salvation. That is why I spoke earlier of providence. I have seen you often, Demetrios Askiates, lurking behind Tatikios, scribbling with your pen while your eyes and ears recorded all. I know there is more to your service than most – perhaps even that fool of a eunuch – suspect. I know that in your city you had a reputation for unveiling the truths to which other men were blind.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘The Duke of Lorraine and his brother positively swear to it.’
‘I only serve—’
‘Demetrios, you would see the siege ended, the famished fed and the city restored to your Emperor?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then help me.’ I heard the jangle of his armour as he tapped a fist against his heart. ‘Help me root out the canker of Drogo’s death before it poisons us all. Discover who murdered him, so that rumours and speculation and recriminations do not cleave our army apart.’
His eyes, grey in the moonlight, fixed on mine. ‘Please?’
?
A chill dew still lay on the ground when I reached the Norman camp next morning. It soaked my boots and shrivelled my feet, yet it was the stares of those we passed which truly discomfited me. Their drawn faces looked up from steaming pots of boiling bones, examining the Greek interloper with his giant companion, and I saw only hatred. A few even summoned the strength to spit as we passed.
‘You should have worn armour,’ said Sigurd, unhelpfully.
‘I don’t want to appear a threat.’
‘Better a threat than a target.’
‘Trust has to begin somewhere.’
‘Far from here.’ Sigurd took a rag from his belt and ostentatiously wiped some imagined moisture from his axe-head. ‘Have you forgotten that these are the same Normans who spent four years trying to defeat the Emperor whose gold they now take? Or that leading their kinsmen at the coast is the son of William the Bastard who stole my country? These men are the thieves of kingdoms, and I would want three hauberks and a stout wall at my back before I trusted myself to their company.’
Thankfully he spoke in Greek, which none of the Franks had troubled to learn.
‘And now you’ve pimped yourself to Bohemond, the thief of thieves,’ he continued.
‘Surely you agree that a suspicious death should be laid to rest. Distrust and dissension among us will be fatal.’
‘It was a Norman death; we should be thanking God and praying for more.’
Sigurd’s foul temper at last ran silent, and I was able to enquire after Drogo without risking offence. Even so, I was frequently answered with scowls. Often I had trouble making myself understood with those I asked, for none of us spoke a common language. Rather, over the course of months we had learned to barter words, trading and hoarding them. As with all commerce, ill will made it infinitely harder.
After half an hour, I found the tent I sought. There was little to distinguish it, a patchwork cone of mismatched cloths which had been sewn and re-sewn until the neat stripes of its inception became a labyrinth of criss-crossed lines. The flaps were still down against the cold, and I rapped on the stiff fabric to announce myself. A small voice grudgingly called me in.
There were four straw mattresses on the earth floor inside, though only one occupant. It was the boy who had brought us to the body, the dead man’s servant, squatting on the straw and rubbing an oily tuft of wool along a sword blade. In the dusk and confusion of the night before, I had barely had time to look at him: now I noticed how deep-sunken his cheeks were, how the dark eyes seemed held in a perpetual terror. The brown hair which fell well past his shoulders gave him an unsettlingly girlish quality.
Despite the circumstances in which we had met the previous day, he gave no sign of remembering me. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name is Demetrios. This is Sigurd. You brought us to your master’s body last night. Now the lord Bohemond has charged us to discover who killed him.’
He inclined his head close to the blade, as if checking for some imperceptible flaw. ‘I did not kill him.’
So clumsy was the response that for a moment I did not know how to answer it. I crouched before him, trying to look into the downcast eyes, and softened my voice.
‘What is your name?’
‘Simon.’
‘From where?’
‘Cagnano.’
It might have been in Persia for all I knew. ‘How long did you serve Drogo, your master?’
Misery filled the boy’s face as he stumbled to answer my question, tapping his fingers hopelessly. Sigurd coughed impatiently, but I did not press the boy. His soul was brittle, and I sensed that even a little rough usage might snap it. As I waited, I watched the sallow light seeping under the edge of the tent. Every so often a passing shadow would interrupt it, but there was one shadow I noticed which did not move.
‘Since Heraklea. I do not know how long it has been since then.’
‘About six months,’ I guessed. ‘Who did you travel with to Heraklea?’
‘With my master’s brother. He died in the battle there. Afterwards, my master took me into his household.’
I remembered the battle at Heraklea – though in truth it had been barely a skirmish. On a dusty morning, the Turks in the garrison had made one charge at our vanguard, then fled away before us. We lost three men, probably
