Rogue Sword (8 page)

Lucas nodded. “I set off for the Orient soon after you departed, Micer. Only this month have I come back to Europe.”

“You must have much to tell.” The gray eyes lit up. “Did you learn anything of Tartar military practice?”

“Somewhat. I’m unsure how much could be adopted by your light cavalry--what’s the word?--your
jinetes
. Doubtless your Turcopols have already learned a great deal from the Mongols in Persia and elsewhere.”

“We shall see.” En Jaime stroked his pointed beard. “You retain your clerkly skills, I hope? Excellent. We’ve need of men who can read and write. If they can also wield a blade, why, we’ll make counts of them!”

Lucas stirred uneasily. “I know not if I--”

En Jaime went on without noticing: “You’ve kept other gifts, too, I observe, such as finding beautiful women and causing trouble.” He seated himself and picked up his goblet. “You’ve told me how you escaped from the galleys, and intimated why. I gather you’re outlaw in every Venetian domain. Well, then, here’s your country!”

He flushed a trifle at the ring of his own words, which did not accord with aristocratic reserve. “We are glad to enroll any worthy man as a soldier of the table,” he said with more dryness. “I can make immediate use of you on my own staff. That starts you high. I am on the Council of Twelve which the Company has elected to govern them under our new commander, En Berenguer de Rocafort. Good service on your part cannot go unnoticed; you may hope to be knighted before long.”

Lucas stared into his wine cup.

“Well?” said En Jaime.

Lucas jerked. “Oh . . . yes. You’re most kind, Micer. But--”

He was remembering how Asberto’s troop had been ready to kill him like a beetle and drag Djansha into the house they intended sacking. And he remembered, even more vividly, another moment on the ride hither. The approaching horses had flushed a Thracian peasant from the brake in which he huddled. He ran down the road, his tunic flapping about skinny shanks. A
jinete
galloped after him, pricked him in the rear with a lance point, again and again, until blood soaked his gray tunic. At last the peasant collapsed in a faint, if his heart had not burst. Asberto Cornel rocked in the saddle with laughter.

“I know so little about the Grand Company,” faltered Lucas.

“What? You’ve traveled in Anatolia and not heard of Roger di Flor?”

“Not by name, Micer. You understand how distorted such news is. In the eastern emirates, we heard only that a band of Giaours had brought God’s wrath with them.”

“Which was not so ill put,” En Jaime agreed in a satisfied tone.

He crossed one leg over the other, raised the glass to his lips, and looked cordially across it at his guest. “Our tale has many ins and outs,” he said. “I would need years to relate all that has happened to every man of us. And,
desperta ferres
, more will happen in the future. But I can give you the bare bones of the story at once.

“So. Where shall I begin? The Sicilian War was a long one. But in the end, with God’s help, Aragon was victorious and King Fadrique mounted the throne of Sicily. That was three years ago. Now, during that war, he had hired many troops. Good, skilled, valiant lads, every one of them. However--” a touch of sardonicism--”as is not uncommon, the Lord King found his coffers not quite deep enough to pay them.

“The mercenary captain, En Roger di Flor, had distinguished himself in the war. He had had a gallant career even before, as I must someday relate to you, until his enemies caused his expulsion from the Templars and he ended taking service under Aragon.”

Lucas reflected that anyone cast out of so notoriously lax, greedy, and violent a brotherhood as the Knights Templar must have been a bandit indeed. It would be most impolitic, though, to voice his suspicion. Judging from what Asberto Cornel and others had let fall, Roger di Flor was regarded by his company as a martyred saint.

“After the war,” said En Jaime, “seeing the danger King Fadrique was in from his own troops, En Roger broached a plan which the king was very willing to assist. You doubtless know in what poor condition the Empire here was, with the Turks gobbling up one Anatolian city after the next. En Roger offered to lead a strong Catalan force to the Emperor’s aid. This was gladly accepted. In September, three years ago, we reached Constantinople in a fleet of thirty-six sails, six thousand men, many of whom had their families along, as well as the thousand cavalry and thousand infantry who carried En Roger’s private standard.”

“Ah,” laughed Lucas, “you say ‘we.’ That was the thought which saved my life: wherever Catalans were fighting, my old master was likely to be.”

En Jaime’s smile was a warm response. “For a time,” he said, “it looked as if we’d get no fighting, except riots. Body of Christ! I’d not dreamed a government could be so corrupt and effete. No provisions whatsoever had been made for us. Yet Emperor Andronicus did at once, before we had so much as lifted a halberd, issue four months’ wages. With idle soldiers and mariners lounging about the streets for weeks on end, brawling with the Greeks and with the Genoese of Galata--why, in one such riot, the Grand Drungarios himself was slain, as his troops tried to halt it. But those Greeks are worthless, the merest yellow mongrels. . . . Your pardon. Of course, I don’t include Cretans.

“Meanwhile Andronicus sought to curry favor with our officers, adopted En Roger into the Imperial family, named him Grand Duke, wed him to the Emperior’s granddaughter Maria. At last we were removed to Asia, where we cleared Cyzicus and Pegae of the Turks. We stayed the winter there. In spring, it was found that most of our men, quartered on the townsfolk, had incurred larger debts than they could pay. Duke Roger sought to get the needful monies from the Emperor, but failed.”

And so the townsfolk went unpaid, thought Lucas.

En Jaime moistened his throat with wine before he resumed:

“There were also riots with the Alan cavalrymen serving the Emperor, as well as the civil populace. The son of their chief was killed. In the end, that was not a lucky happening for us. . . . Well. Finally we marched forth. Philadelphia, the largest city in Anatolia, lay under siege. We routed the Turks and pursued them to the Iron Gates on the Lycian frontier. Meanwhile our fleet occupied Chios and other islands, gaining a good booty.”

Which belonged to the Byzantines, Lucas thought.

“We wintered in Philadelphia, chiefly,” said En Jaime. “At that time the
rich hom
En Berenguer de Rocafort arrived with reinforcements. It became ever more plain to us how little strength or honor the Imperial government had. In revenge for our disputes with the Greeks, our treasures, which we had stored in the city of Magnesia, were confiscated next year, and our people there were put to the sword. Duke Roger laid siege, but I confess we failed to take the city, for lack of engineers and war machinery. The Imperial armies demanded to be led against us, and our Alan auxiliaries quit the standard and wandered about freely, living off the countryside. In the end, Andronicus’ son, the co-Emperor Skyr Miqueli--Michael, they call him here--smoothed matters over. But as we had long been unpaid, and had lost our treasures, we levied contribution from the provinces.”

Lucas said nothing. He was thinking of certain men he had met one day in a Turkish camp: Greeks so embittered they had turned Moslem. They told of a land robbed bare. The only plentiful article was the bones of children who had starved to death.

“That autumn we crossed the Boca Daner,” said En Jaime, meaning the strait which Gallipoli overlooked. “We took up quarters here and in various Thracian towns. Duke Roger visited Constantinople to demand our pay, but got only a small amount, and that in debased coinage. Wherefore our men taught the Greeks a sharp lesson by plundering all around. About this time, En Berenguer de Entenza arrived with reinforcements and--”

There was a deferential knock. A woman’s impatient voice said, “Oh, be not a cur in your timidity, Asberto, as well as in your manners.”

She entered without waiting for En Jaime’s leave. Behind her came the knight, Cornel. A stolen robe, on which he had wiped greasy fingers, draped his bow-legged horseman’s body. His broken visage turned embarrassedly toward the
rich hom
. “Na Violante wanted--” he began shyly.

“Na Violante de Lebia Tari wanted to see this newcomer from Cathay, of whom so many rumors have been flying,” interrupted the woman. As Lucas bowed, she gave him a slow, savoring smile. “And well worth seeing he is. Are they all so gallant in the East?”

Smooth habit answered for Lucas: “No, my lady, they are not. I’m long out of practice. Yet who would not try his best to be gallant in the presence of so much beauty?” Asberto flushed. “See here!” he growled. “Let her alone, Greco, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

“Enough.” En Jaime raised one hand. Asberto looked at his feet, gnawed his mustache, and said no more.

Violante continued to regard Lucas. He returned her gaze with frank pleasure. Tall, dark of eye and fair of complexion, she defied propriety by leaving uncovered the raven’s-wing hair piled on her head, and by a gown of blue silk that fitted her richly curved body like a second skin and plunged low across the breasts. Her features were a little too strong in nose and chin, a little too wide in mouth; yet surely that mouth knew how to kiss. She had adorned herself with a barbaric overflow of gems: a diamond fillet above the low brow, a ruby smoldering in the cleft of her bosom, golden bracelets coiled on her arms. Her age, Lucas guessed, was a few years less than his own.

“You must forgive me, En Jaime,” she said. “Asberto insisted you were entertaining privately. Yet for just that reason I had to come. When else could I listen to this man, who has guested the Grand Cham in Cambaluc?”

“You are welcome,” said the
rich hom
stiffly. Lucas thought he yielded more to a certain appeal in Asberto’s eyes than to the woman.

“Oh, now,” she murmured, touching his hand. He withdrew it. “Be not so stern. Why, you look like a flounder in Lent.”

A reluctant smile twitched En Jaime’s mouth. “Very well, my lady. You get your way, as usual. Pray be seated. If Maestro Lucas wishes to relate a few stories of his travels, we will all be grateful.”

“Gladly,” said Lucas. He felt Violante’s presence like a tingle over scalp and spine. Evidently Asberto--best be sure to gratify that sullen dog with an “En Asberto”--no, curse it, “Nasberto,” since the name began with a vowel--Nasberto Cornel was her lover. How had he gotten so desirable a creature?

To gain time for preparing witty phrases she could admire, Lucas said, “I should first hear out En Jaime’s relation of the Grand Company. He left them here in Gallipoli, quarreling with the Imperium.”

“Which tried, by conferring honors on En Berenguer de Entenza, to divide us against ourselves,” said the nobleman indignantly. “But En Roger di Flor forestalled that by yielding his title of Grand Duke to de Entenza. Meanwhile the Turks again overran Anatolia and infested Philadelphia.

“This, as well as certain treaties being made in the West, which Rocafort feared might make us feudatories of Sicily--he is, in all confidence, Lucas, a man greedy of power--made both parties more willing to deal with each other. Or so it seemed. En Roger was created Caesar, which is just below the Emperor himself, and given many other honors and promises . . . but only four months’ pay in debased coins, which we therefore compelled the Greeks to take at face value. We then agreed to march against the Turks.”

En Jaime fell silent. He held his goblet up to the light, twirled it, and dashed it against the wall. Glass tinkled to the floor; a red wine stain spattered the mosaic.

“They murdered our lord,” said the Catalan thickly. “God will punish them. I say to you, we are the scourge of God upon this brood of snakes I”

Asberto growled an obscene agreement. Na Violante’s cheeks flamed. Lucas sat very still.

“Have you heard the tale?” said En Jaime after a while. “Before departing to war, our commander, the Caesar, went to Adrianople to pay his respects to Skyr Miqueli. And there he was murdered. George, the chief of the Alans, whose son had been killed in the riots at Cyzicus--George wielded the knife. Oh, but the Alans shall mourn for that day! And the Greeks! Three hundred good Catalans who had been with En Roger were butchered in the streets. Only three men escaped to bring us the news. By then, the Alans were already at our throats. They slew all of us they could find dwelling in Thrace, and camped before Gallipoli to besiege us.

“So we sent a deputation to Andronicus, under safe conduct, to defy him and impeach him and offer trial of combat. On their way back to us . . . they were slain and quartered in the shambles of Rhedestos town. Meanwhile our admiral and all Catalans in the capital were massacred by the people.

“Nonetheless the Grand Duke, En Berenguer de Entenza, took our ships to Perinthos. He stormed that city, avenged us upon its inhabitants, and filled his holds with plunder. But on his way back, he was taken by a Genoese fleet.

“When we heard this, certain faint hearts argued we should flee to a safer place, such as the island of Mitylene. But good St. George strengthened us in our resolve. We scuttled our remaining boats to end such talk. And we made banners to carry into battle, and elected En Berenguer de Rocafort to be our commander. And we sallied forth against the Alans and drove them away with great slaughter and won an immense booty.

“But it is only the beginning, Lucas. Only the beginning.”

En Jaime rose, a little unsteadily. His voice had gone harsh with so much talk. He took another Venetian goblet from the sideboard. Asberto Cornel hastened to fill it for him. He drank deep.

Lucas kept silent.

After all, he thought, if the Empire is so far decayed that it does not even give its people protection for their un-freedom and the taxes wrung out of them, then the time is past due for a storm to lash Byzantium off the earth. A bold new people can erect something better on the ruins. I only wish I could forget how that peasant screamed as the lancer pursued him.

A gurgling called his attention back. Violante had poured his own glass full.