Tom Harper - The mosaic of shadows

‘Who travels this road?’

‘The Count Hugh the Great,’ answered Sigurd. ‘And his escort. Here on an embassy from the Emperor. Much good may it do us,’ he added under his breath.

‘You’ll need patience,’ observed the sentry. We were close enough now that I could see he was a Patzinak with a scarred face and narrow eyes, from another of the Emperor’s mercenary legions. From the time I had spent talking with Sigurd and Aelric, I knew even the Varangians bore them a grudging respect.

‘Have the Franks hired you as their guardians?’ asked Sigurd. ‘You should be protecting the Emperor, not these whoresons.’

‘We protect them from themselves,’ the Patzinak said with a toothless grin. ‘They come in the name of the cross, they say, so we keep their souls free from the cares of the world beyond. Like the walls of a monastery.’

‘Or a prison.’

‘Or a prison.’ The Patzinak pulled his horse aside, and waved us past. ‘Strange enough, we had a scuffle with some of them last night. They said much the same.’

We rode on, into the makeshift town which had descended onto our plain like the new Jerusalem. They had been here only four days, but already the earth was ground to mud by the passage of a thousand feet, and the trees had been felled for kindling. Blacksmiths had constructed rudimentary forges under canvas awnings, and sparks flew through the blue smoke as they worked against the ceaseless demands of arms and horses. Peddlers of a dozen races proclaimed their strange and multifarious wares, while on every corner of this tented city women shouted offers which, in any tongue, were readily understood. Many of them, I saw, were our own people, who clearly had bribed or crept their way through the Patzinak cordon.

At length we came to what had once been the village square, now covered with a vast tent. The knights who stood grouped before it seemed larger, stronger than the haggard creatures we had seen before, and there was a stiffness in the way they held themselves. On a crude post behind them, beside the pavilion door, was draped a banner emblazoned with a blood-red cross and a slogan in barbarian characters: ‘Deus le volt.’

‘Thus God wills it,’ whispered Father Gregorias in my ear.

‘Does He?’

The Count Hugh dismounted, grimacing as his fur boot settled in the mire. Sigurd and the nearest Varangians followed.

‘Halt.’

A guard by the door angled his spear across the Count’s path and spoke brusquely. The Count responded with anger, though to little effect.

‘He says none are allowed in his lord’s chamber bearing arms,’ explained Gregorias. ‘The Count replies that it demeans his honour to be denied his vassals.’

Honour or no, he at last agreed that the Varangians would wait outside while he conducted his audience with the barbarians. Gregorias and I pushed forward.

‘My secretaries,’ said the Count curtly. ‘So that none may falsely represent what is said.’

The guard eyed us as warily as he had the axe-wielding Varangians, but allowed us to pass into the gloom of the tent. It took some moments for my eyes to adapt, for the only light within came from a three-branched candlestick on a wooden chest, and the dimly glowing coals of an iron brazier. Behind the pole which supported the coned ceiling there was a splintered table, where two barbarians sat on stools arguing; otherwise, the room was empty. The Count strode into the open space in its midst, the only place where he did not have to stoop, while Gregorias and I perched ourselves on a low bench by the door.

Everything that followed they said in Frankish, but by peering at Gregorias’ quick scribbling, and with the odd whispered explanation where his hand lagged their mouths too far, I managed a fair understanding of what passed.

In the time-hallowed manner of ambassadors, the Count began by announcing himself. ‘I am Hugh le Maisne, second son of Henry, King of the Franks; Count of Vermandois. .’

‘We know who you are.’ The interruption was as unexpected as it was abrupt, and came from the man at the right of the table, a tall man with unkempt dark hair and a skin so pale it was almost luminous. It seemed that long use had set his features in a perpetual sneer.

‘And we welcome you, Count Hugh.’ The other barbarian spoke with calm diplomacy, in stark contrast to his companion. His hair was fair, though darker and longer than the Count’s, and the months of travel had given him a weathered complexion which suited him well. He wore a handsome robe of russet cloth, and leaned forward earnestly over the table. ‘We had hoped to find you safe arrived here.’

‘Mincing like a Greek, and dressed like one of their girl-men. Have they made you their whore, Hugh, or clad you with so many gilded lies that you forgot your true countrymen?’

‘Peace, brother,’ the fair-haired man rebuked him. But the Count’s delicate skin was crimson, and his chin quivered.

‘The great Emperor Alexios grants these gifts in honour of my position,’ he squealed. ‘And I wear them of courtesy to him. Have a care, Baldwin no-lands: a single thread of this cloth would buy more than your miserable position could ever afford, yet it is but the least of the magnificence which the Emperor has given me.’ He turned his eye to the other end of the table. ‘To you though, Duke Godfrey, the Emperor will be likewise gracious. There is treasure in his palace the like of which has never been seen in Christendom, and he is eager to bestow it on men of good faith, those who follow the path of Christ.’

The dark-haired Baldwin made to speak again, but his brother stilled him and spoke first. ‘I have not come here seeking favours, Count Hugh, and the true pilgrim needs little baggage on the holy road. Even where the path is most perilous, a sword and a shield and fodder for my mount will suffice me.’ He gestured about. ‘You see my quarters — a bare floor and a place to conduct my business. I need no praise or trinkets from the Greek king, only a safe passage for my men across the straits. If he grants that, I will be gone within the week. I do not wish to dally here.’

The Count shifted on his feet. ‘The Emperor applauds your noble purpose, Duke Godfrey, for your pure heart is well renowned, even in these distant kingdoms. He will happily do all he can to advance your eternal victory over the Saracens. All he asks is your oath that whichever lands you take that once were his, you will restore to him as is his right.’

Baldwin’s fist slammed down on the table, scattering the papers laid over it. ‘He asks what? That we should lay down our lives so his miserable nation of Greeklings can spread their bastard offspring back into lands they were too weak to defend. We fight for God, Count, not for the glory of tyrants. Any lands we win in battle will be our own, earned with our swords and bought with our blood. If your master desires them, he can come and claim them himself. In combat.’

Duke Godfrey frowned. ‘My brother speaks harshly,’ he told Hugh, ‘but there is truth in what he says. I came to serve Christ, not men, and I have already sworn my oath to the Emperor Henry. I cannot serve two masters.’

‘Do not mention the Emperor Henry to the Emperor Alexios,’ cautioned Hugh. ‘It does not please him.’

‘If Alexios gives me the boats to cross the straits, we need never meet. I have no need for the flattery of kings.’

‘And do not call him a king. He commands the reverence due his office, unbroken since the days of the first Caesars.’

Baldwin stood suddenly. He walked around in front of the table, lifted the hem of his tunic, and sprayed a stream of piss onto the floor by Hugh’s feet. The Count leapt back in horror, holding his precious skirts like a girl.