The Iron Lance (15 page)

Other merchants voiced similar complaints: the Romans had gold enough, but refused to part with it. They seemed to believe that, along with the grain and water the emperor provided, anything else they wanted should be given to them, too. For the merchants, that was bad enough; worse, however, was the Romans' inexplicable disdain. The abuse pouring out of the mouths of the visitors first embarrassed the emperor, then bewildered him. To a man, the Latin knights appeared to hold their Byzantine brothers in lowest contempt, reviling them, cursing them, even as they clamored and cajoled for their goods.

“Pig! Over here!” they called, making sounds like hogs snuffling. “Here, pig! You call this bread, pig? I would not give you a turd for it.”

Or, again: “What! Think you I would touch this cloth after you've had your filthy hands all over it? Get it away from me, you shit-eating dog!”

This litany of crude abuse was repeated wherever the merchants clustered. And if it was worrying to the tradesmen, Alexius found it alarming. Encamped before him was a vast army of fighting men who did not recognize the simple unity of their common faith and brotherhood, who considered themselves superior to their eastern kinsmen, and moreover
exempt from the obligations of ordinary human decency and goodwill.

What the produce merchant had said was true: these Romans
were
worse than barbarians. The benighted barbarian only wanted whatever valuables he might carry away. These men wanted the world—and, indeed, saw themselves ruling it. That notion, Alexius determined, would be soundly squelched at first opportunity. Yes, but it must be defeated subtly, quietly, and without overt antagonism.

He strolled along the perimeter of the immense camp, watching the knights and footmen. They were, almost without exception, big men: tall, long-limbed, heavy of shoulder, belly, and thigh, hard-handed and thick-muscled; when they walked, their heels struck the earth with solid purpose, their movements ponderous rather than lithe. Their skin was pale, without natural color, resembling raw dough in both texture and consistency. Alexius entertained the notion that his slightest touch would leave a lingering impression on such pasty flesh.

Their faces were broad, with thick lips and large noses; their eyes wide-set, but small beneath heavy brows. Alexius could not imagine any woman finding such horse-like features attractive. Worst of all, they wore their hair long—like maidens' hair—and like that of young women, it hung loosely about their necks in desultory curls; curiously, however, except for the occasional broad moustache, they kept themselves clean-shaven. The combination of long hair and smooth chins and jowls appeared odd to the Byzantine eye; it struck Alexius as somewhat obscene—as if the foreigners perversely insisted on covering that which should be revealed, and revealing that which should be covered.

Their garments were coarse and heavy, somber colored. Most wore an outer coat over a knee-length tunic cinched at the
waist by a wide leather belt from which hung their knives. Some few, he noticed, did possess an outer cloak of better fabric, sewn with bright squares or stripes of contrasting colors—red and green, yellow and blue, black and white. But, whether cloak or mantle, tunic, or leggings, all were made for a clime much colder and more changeable than that to which they had come, and, God help them, far colder still than that to which they were going.

Their feet were covered with tall leather boots, or shoes of the old Roman style with tough soles and thick uppers which laced up the leg with stout leather thongs. In this, at least, they showed a little wisdom; the ground of the Holy Land was rough and arid, more rock than soil, and a soldier who could not walk or run could not fight. Too many good men died because their shoes could not take the strain of the march, let alone the fight, Alexius reflected; the emperor set great store by a soldier's footwear.

In manner, the westerners were much as he expected: haughty, insolent, and rude. They swaggered insufferably as they walked, hailing one another with uncouth gestures, their talk broken by coarse and raucous laughter. Loud in speech, brash in action, they were, in a word, crude; on the whole, they behaved as if they had neither a grain of civility in their souls, nor a redeeming thought in their heads. They were uninvited guests in a land far from home; for the love of Christ, did that mean nothing to them?

The arrogance and ambition of their leaders might be expected, but the casual cruelty of the average fighting man was difinitely a startling and nasty surpise. Alexius saw in it the ugly shape of a malignant wickedness—a vile sinfulness which proceeded from a core of hate and ignorance and greed.

Having seen enough, the emperor turned away in disgust
and hastened back to the palace to call his advisers and prepare for the battle to come. By the time he slipped once again through the hidden gate, Alexius had devised the first strike. It would come, he decided, in the form of a gift—or, better still, many gifts—the more gaudy and expensive the better.

The emperor kept his unruly visitors waiting for nine days, then dispatched the Commander of the Imperial Excubitori with a summons. “The emperor will receive you,” Nicetas informed the brother lords icily. “Make yourselves ready. An escort will be sent to conduct you to the palace tomorrow morning.”

The next day, Godfrey, Duke of Bouillon, and Baldwin, Prince of Boulogne, each attended by numerous noblemen and vassals, were led into the great reception room of Blachernae Palace. The two lords and their entourage walked in openmouthed awe of their peerless surroundings. Marble floors of palest green, polished to mirror-brightness, stretched away on every side beneath a gilded ceiling which glimmered overhead like a firmament of gold, supported by a forest of graceful pillars of marble so pure and white they seemed to shine with the radiance of the moon.

Led by the magister officiorum—stately, regal, holding high his ebony rod of authority—the Romans passed through two enormous doors of burnished copper which opened silently on hidden hinges to admit them into a vast cavern of a room possessed of even greater opulence than anything they had yet seen. The rarest blue and green marbles, imported at unthinkable expense from the farthest reaches of the empire, lined the walls and floor, gleaming and radiant in the light from a hundred perfumed wax tapers set in candle trees of gold all around the room.

Before them on a raised dais of expensive porphyry, dressed in his purple robes, wearing a crown of gold inset with rubies and pearls, sat Basileus Alexius Comnenus, Elect of Heaven, Supreme Ruler of All Christendom, God's Vice-Regent on Earth, Equal of the Apostles. If their first glimpse of the most powerful man alive did not impress them, the sight of his throne of solid gold thrilled them to their souls. Nor did they fail to appreciate the formidable presence of the triple ranks of the emperor's Varangian bodyguard, all of them carrying axes and shields of silver, and wearing helms set with lapis lazuli and breastplates sheathed in gold.

Godfrey and Baldwin were astounded, excited, fascinated, and delighted by all they saw. Though they might disregard the man, they could not dismiss his wealth, or the might at his command. In short, they each imagined themselves firmly ensconced in marble palaces, holding court on thrones of gold, and leading ranks of seven-foot tall warriors arrayed in gems and precious metals.

The possibility was so fitting, so unarguably proper to men of their rank and status, that neither lord foresaw any impediment to the early acquisition of this exalted state. Though they might be sojourners in a realm of riches beyond anything they had ever dreamed possible, they were still men of royal birth and therefore rightful heirs to all that kings could desire. Moreover, it was all theirs for the taking.

The magister led the party to the foot of the throne, where he thumped the floor three times with his silver-tipped rod, and announced, “Bringing before your majesty his servants Godfrey of Bouillon and Baldwin of Boulogne, and their many retainers.”

He then prostrated himself, indicating that the bedazzled worthies should follow his example. Alexius let them lie on the
floor for a long moment before he raised a hand and said, “You may stand.”

The lords obeyed, rising to find themselves under the scrutiny of two keen dark eyes set in a shrewd, calculating face. Godfrey, the senior of the two, spoke first. “Lord and Emperor,” he said, employing his best Latin, “we greet you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. May his blessing be upon you. We bring greetings, also, from his Holiness, Pope Urban, who sends his highest regards, and begs the emperor to receive your brothers with felicitous good-will.”

“We accept your greetings,” Alexius replied, “and stand ready to extend our friendship to you and all those under your command. No doubt,” the emperor observed, “you have received the gifts which we have sent as a token of the friendship awaiting those who pledge faith with this throne.”

“Indeed, we have, Lord Emperor,” Godfrey replied. “Our thanks are as boundless as your generosity.”

Alexius inclined his head regally. “We assume also, that you have received the provisions we have caused to be delivered to your camps for the refreshment of your troops.”

“Again, we are in your debt, my lord,” the duke answered.

“It is a debt easily discharged,” the emperor told him. “We require but one thing in return.”

“Your majesty has but to name it,” replied Godfrey expansively, “and it will be accomplished with all speed.”

“We are pleased to hear it.” The emperor lifted his hand and beckoned one of the half-dozen black robed officials forward. The man, in a red cap as flat and square as a mason's board, stepped beside the throne. Bowing from the waist, the Logothete of the Symponus extended a parchment square on his outstretched palms. The emperor took up the document, unfolded it and began to read.

The two noble brothers listened, growing increasingly uncomfortable as the document spelled out in no uncertain terms their duties and responsibilities while guests of the empire. When Alexius came to the oath of loyalty they were expected to swear, recognizing the emperor as the supreme sovereign whose authority the lords of the West held above all other earthly claims, they were aghast.

“Lord and Emperor,” pleaded Godfrey, “begging your imperial pardon, we cannot possibly swear by such an oath.”

Alexius frowned. Godfrey hastened to explain. “It is most unfortunate, lord, but we have already sworn fealty to the Emperor of the West: William, King of England. We cannot by any means swear fealty to another, less yet hold
two
sovereigns supreme. Therefore, we must beg to be excused this condition.”

“But you will
not
be excused, Godfrey of Bouillon,” Alexius said, his voice quiet with the awful weight of his disapproval. “As God is One, there is but one Holy Roman Empire and Constantinople is its capital. There is but one sovereign lord upon the throne, the same lord you see before you; there are no others. We care not what the lords of the West may do in their own lands, but when they come to the capital of the empire which has given them life and nurture, they will swear an oath of allegiance to the sovereign under whose protection they thrive.”

The lords were dumbstruck. Never had they anticipated such an ungracious reception. They had travelled nine months and endured countless hardships in order to lend their aid to save the failing empire—only to have their noblest intentions thrown back in their faces over a trivial matter of loyalty. Come to that, did the emperor actually expect them to sign his contemptible document?

“Emperor Alexius,” Godfrey began, somewhat uncertainly, “we find ourselves unable to abide by your request.”

“Do you refuse?” inquired the emperor.

“In no way,” Godfrey blustered, “but it is simply not possible for us to sign the document you propose.”

Baldwin found his voice then, and added, “Our word is our honor, Lord Emperor—and that is good enough for any man.”

Alexius bristled. “Honor? We will not hear you debase that exalted word in our presence. We have seen enough of your honor to know that your word, so easily given—when it aids your purpose—is thrice easily broken when it suits you. In short, there is nothing to which you will not swear; likewise, there is nothing you will not forswear when the tide of circumstance begins to run against you.”

The emperor glared mightily at the two uncertain noblemen before him, and vowed, “Truly, we will have your signatures on this treaty of allegiance, or you will never see Jerusalem.”

The brothers looked at one another hopelessly, but remained unmoved. Alexius decided to allow them time to reconsider. “Go,” he said wearily. “Return to your camps and hold council with your advisers. We will send for your reply two days' hence.”

With that, lords Godfrey and Baldwin were led from the emperor's presence. They walked as men condemned, for they saw all the glittering treasures they had claimed for themselves receding swiftly from their grasp. Desolate and confused, they very soon found themselves cast out from the opulent palace and thrown back into the stinking camps where they sat in forlorn contemplation of the inexplicable treachery of the devious Easterners.

Thus began a battle of wills which was to endure for many weeks. Upon the pilgrims' repeated refusal to sign the oath of allegiance, the emperor finally discontinued the delivery of supplies and provisions. From time to time, Alexius would send Count Hugh of Vermandois, as his personal envoy, to the cru
sader camp to try to persuade the lords to swear the oath of fealty so that their troops could enjoy the fresh provisions of food and wine awaiting them. Each time, they would decline the oath, and grimly watch the level of their remaining supplies dip ever lower.

The first warning that it was time to force the stubborn brothers' surrender came to Alexius with the return of the Varangian regiment assigned to conduct stray pilgrims to the capital. The commander of the regiment sought out the drungarius and quickly passed on a letter from the emperor's nephew, John, the Exarch of Dyrrachium. Dalassenus thanked the man, and hastened to the emperor, whom he found with his family at prayers in the palace chapel.

He entered quietly, approached the altar, knelt behind his kinsman and waited for Alexius to finish. When the archbishop concluded the prayer, the royal family rose and turned to see who had joined them. “Dalassenus!” exclaimed the empress. Irene, a tall and elegant woman, smiled graciously and extended her hand to one of her favorite courtiers. “We have seen so little of you these last days. I hope you will observe Easter Mass with us—and the feast afterwards, of course.”

“It would be my pleasure, basilissa,” he said, bending his head to kiss her extended hand.

“If you will excuse us now,” the emperor said, “I believe Dalassenus has come on urgent business.”

“All these interminable discussions,” Irene chided. “Whenever will it end? Come, children,” she said, gathering her brood, “your lessons await.”

Alexius bade farewell to his wife and children, and then turned to Dalassenus. “The Varangi have returned. The patrician brought this for you,” he said, passing the letter to the emperor.

Alexius broke the seal, unfolded the document and scanned the contents quickly. Dalassenus, observing the change in the emperor's demeanor, inquired, “Ill tidings, basileus?”

“At least two more crusader armies have crossed our borders; they are on their way to the capital even as we speak,” Alexius said. He frowned and added, “It seems one of these armies is under the command of our former adversary, Bohemond of Taranto.”

“Him!” growled the drungarius, “I thought we had seen the last of Guiscard's miserable misbegotten son.”

“So had I, cousin,” the emperor agreed.

“And the other army?” the drungarius wondered.

“It is under the command of a man called Raymond, Count of Toulouse. They landed at Dyrrachium on the Ides of March, and John moved them quickly on. They could arrive at any time.”

Dalassenus fought down his growing rancor. “I will alert the Pecheneg theme to watch the roads and bring word as soon as they are sighted. That should give us warning enough—”

“Better still,” suggested Alexius, “instruct them to escort the Count and his troops to the capital at once. I do not want these marauding pilgrims pillaging any more towns along the way.”

“It will be done, basileus,” the young commander replied. “Does the exarch indicate how many we can expect to—”

Before he could say more, the Captain of the Excubitori appeared at the door. He coughed politely, and when Alexius beckoned him to approach, he said, “Forgive the intrusion, basileus, but there may be a problem,” Nicetas announced. “A riot has broken out in one of the markets outside the walls. The city scholae are dealing with it, but I thought you should know. Also, it appears the Romans are moving their camps further up the Golden Horn. They may be preparing an attack on the city.”

The emperor's frown deepened; he rubbed a hand over his face.

“What can they be thinking?” said Dalassenus, his brow lowering with exasperation.

Alexius drew a steadying breath and said, “It may come to nothing. Nevertheless, we will be ready. Call out the archers, and have the Varangi man the walls.” To Dalassenus he said, “Summon the Immortals.”

“Do you wish us to engage the pilgrims, basileus?” asked Nicetas.

“No,” he decided, “at least not yet. If they approach the gates, tell the archers to shoot over their heads. Go now, both of you. We will join you on the wall.”

The emperor rose and left the chapel, hastening to the royal apartments where he called Gerontius to summon his armor bearers. “We will show these quarrelsome lords the folly of making war on their emperor.”

While his servants dressed him for battle, he instructed the magister to send for the Logothete of the Symponus. The élderly official came puffing into his presence, clutching the document the emperor had requested. Alexius relieved him of the parchment and, buckling on his sword, made his way quickly to the wall. He was met on the steps by Nicetas.

“Eleven dead, basileus,” the commander reported. “Twenty-seven wounded and injured.”

“Among the citizens—how many?”

Eighteen, basileus,” the commander replied. “Three merchants, six market traders and one or two artisans; the rest were women and children.”

Dismissing his commander to his duties, the emperor proceeded up the last of the long series of steps to the top of the wall where Dalassenus was waiting for him.

“The fighting continues, basileus. The Romans have pillaged the markets closest to their camps,” the Grand Drungarius informed him. “They appear to be readying an attack on the gate.”

“Where are their commanders?” wondered Alexius, gazing down into the swirling mass of armored men swarming the bridge before the gate. Like so many barbarian hordes before them, these mad Latins believed they could conquer the empire by beating down the gates of Constantinople.