Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

‘Come to go a-soldiering for the emperor?’

Lucas nodded.

‘Got any friends in Constantinople?’

‘No,’ said Lucas, then looked up. ‘I’m looking for a Frankish officer called Vallon.’

The veteran removed the toothpick from his mouth. ‘Vallon?’

‘You know him?’

‘Know him by reputation. Never served under him. What’s he to you?’

‘Someone I met said he might find me a place in the ranks. Do you know where I can find him?’

The veteran placed one palm against his forehead. ‘I think he lives in Galata.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Jesus, I can’t believe it.’ The veteran bracketed his hands on the table and stared at Lucas. ‘Galata’s the other side of the Horn. Right opposite where you docked.’

‘Oh.’

The veteran regarded him. He shook his head. ‘Vallon’s too high and mighty to waste time on the likes of you. He’s a general, got promoted after the do at Dyrrachium.’

‘The man I met said Vallon’s from Aquitaine. Same as me.’

The veteran laughed, scraped back the bench and stood. ‘He’ll be all over you. Go ahead, youngster. When Vallon gives you the bum’s rush, come back here — the Bluebird Tavern — and ask for Pepin. If it’s soldiering you want, I can find you all you bloody well want.’

‘Thank you.’

Pepin the veteran looked him over. ‘You can’t go wandering the streets in that state. The watch will think you’ve murdered someone.’

Lucas stared at him and gave a slow swallow. Pepin’s good eye narrowed. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

‘It was him or me. God’s word.’

‘Hell’s teeth,’ Pepin murmured. ‘Stay here.’

He went into close conference with the taverner and the man glanced over, dismayed at being told he was harbouring a murderer. Certain that the proprietor would call the law, Lucas rose, intending to make a bolt for it. Pepin reeled him in just in time.

‘Easy, lad. This way.’

He led Lucas into a backyard occupied by a few chickens scratching in the dust. ‘Take your tunic off,’ he said. He fetched a pail of water and began mopping Lucas’s face and hair with a flannel. The water ran pink. Pepin changed it. ‘That wound will need stitching by a doctor.’ At last he rocked back and appraised his work. ‘You’ll do.’

When Lucas had towelled himself dry, Pepin held out a clean tunic and a cap. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Lucas whispered.

‘Us Frangoi have to stick together. You got any money?’

Lucas shook his head.

Pepin dug into his purse. ‘That’ll keep you going for a couple of days.’

Lucas stared at the coins. ‘I don’t know how much they’re worth.’

‘There ain’t no limit to your ignorance, is there? Those are folles. Two hundred and eighty folles buys one gold solidus. Two folles is what your meal should have cost. Those coins you handed over were nummi, not worth shit. But the landlord’s an old soldier and took pity on you.’

‘How much is the fare to Galata?’

‘Four folles if you’re the only passenger, less if you share.’ Pepin squinted at Lucas. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anywhere to stay either.’ He sighed. ‘All right, when you’ve finished wasting your time with Vallon, come back here and we’ll fix you up. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to a couple of my old army mates.’

Awash with gratitude, Lucas went out into the street. In his clean tunic and with the hat hiding his wound, no one looked at him twice. He walked down to the harbour, approached a ferryman and pointed across the channel. He made only a feeble attempt to haggle and ended up paying twice the amount stipulated by Pepin. Crossing the Horn, his nerves began to jangle. What was he going to do if he did see Vallon? What would he say?

The ferry landed. Lucas looked up at the settlement, took a shaky breath and set off. Walls surrounded the suburb and a soldier stopped him at a gate and demanded his business. On hearing that Lucas was looking for Vallon, the soldier looked at him with blatant scepticism but let him through.

Warehouses gave way to clean wide streets lined by smart villas behind walls overhung with jasmine and wisteria. The higher Lucas climbed, the more his resolve leaked away until it was all he could do to put one foot in front of another. Pepin’s right, he told himself. Vallon won’t see a peasant from Aquitaine. I won’t even get past his doorman. I’ll find out where he lives and then go back to the taverna and work out what to do next.

Few people were abroad and none of them answered his pleas for directions. He came to a crossroads high on the hill and took the right-hand turning, past a green occupied by four idling youths. One of them nudged his companions’ attention in Lucas’s direction. They stood and pulled their tunics straight. From their smart costume, Lucas guessed they were Venetians, the sons of rich merchants. Their glances and grins suggested that in Lucas they’d found someone to liven up their day.

They drifted across his path in a pack. Lucas slowed for a moment before adopting a confident tread, shoulders rolling. ‘Good morning,’ he said, breaching the line.

A hand fell on his shoulder. The other three youths closed up. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said the one holding his shoulder.

Lucas shook his head and kept walking. The youth pulled him back. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘I’m looking for General Vallon’s house.’

That raised eyebrows. ‘You’re a Frank,’ one said.

‘From Aquitaine.’

They trailed him like dogs. One of them said something that provoked a burst of laughter. Another ran in front of Lucas, sketched an hour-glass shape, grabbed his crotch and thrust it in and out in lewd pantomime.

Lucas fended him off. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

One of the youths snatched Lucas’s hat off, spat into it and then invited Lucas to put it back on. Lucas stopped, blood rising in a tide that threatened to drown reason. He fought down his rage. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘I don’t want any trouble,’ they mimicked. Their laughter died and their quick glances and hardening expressions showed they were ready to attack. One of them flat-handed Lucas in the chest. ‘We don’t want Frankish beggar scum here.’ He gave Lucas another shove. ‘Fuck off back to Frankland.’

Lucas held his ground and tried to fend off his tormentors. ‘Look, there’s no need for this.’

A hand grabbed him and he snapped, driving his fist into the attacker’s face with meaty impact.

‘Get him!’ someone shouted, and the rest dived in, punching and kicking. Lucas kept his feet for a few seconds before weight of numbers bore him to the ground. And then it started. A foot slammed into his nose, smashing bone and gristle. Another foot drove into his ribs and drew back to deliver another kick. Barely conscious, Lucas seized it by the ankle, sank his teeth into the tendon and sawed like a beast. An awful scream, followed by a blow to his eye that made him see the universe on the day of creation, before everything went black.

Consciousness returned. Gasping and spitting blood, he rolled over to register a vision of violence incarnate bearing down from above — a tawny-haired barbarian with moustaches like the wings of an avenging angel and a stump where his left hand should have been. He clamped his good hand on one of the attackers, nailing him to the spot. The others had fled and now they stopped, condemned to witness the final scene in the play they’d improvised so carelessly.

Lucas looked up through the blurred slot that was all that was left of vision. ‘Vallon?’

The man glanced down. ‘You came to find Vallon?’

Lucas nodded. Pain pulsed from the place where his nose had been.