Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Lucas examined his feet.

‘You’ll be entering the tower of Babel,’ Vallon continued. ‘Greek is our common language. You’ll take lessons daily and in two weeks I expect you to understand the basic commands. Do you have anything to say?’

Lucas raised his eyes. Vallon’s expression conveyed professional impatience. Lucas contemplated the ground again.

‘I won’t disappoint you,’ he said. Then, writhing at his betrayal of his slaughtered mother and dead siblings, he added ‘sir’ in a tone that made Vallon squint at him before turning away.

‘Your manners could do with improving,’ the general said. ‘Look to them.’

Lucas and Aiken travelled to the barracks together on a caique, Aiken with his head in a book the entire journey, Lucas contemptuous yet intrigued that words on a page could be so absorbing.

‘What are you reading?’ he said at last.

‘Euclid’s Geometry .’

‘What’s that about?’

Aiken didn’t look up. ‘If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.’

Lucas sucked in his cheeks and smiled around for the benefit of an invisible audience. He stretched out his legs. ‘You think you’re clever.’

Aiken transferred only part of his attention from the book. ‘I know I am. It’s one of the few things I’m certain of.’

Lucas pulled in his legs and leaned forward. ‘Your book learning won’t be of much use in the army.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

Lucas sniffed. ‘I expect you think that being Vallon’s son will make things go easy for you.’

A contemptuous glance from Aiken. ‘That shows how little you know the general.’

Lucas composed his next words with care. ‘I’ve never heard you call him “father”.’

‘Because he isn’t.’

‘Do you wish he was?’

Aiken laid his book down. ‘I wish I’d known my real father. He wasn’t Beorn, as I expect you’ve heard.’

Aiken’s frankness reduced Lucas to silence.

‘What about your family?’ Aiken said.

‘Dead. All except my father. He disappeared on campaign when I was five.’

Aiken’s quiet eyes engaged his. ‘I’m sorry.’

For a moment the two youths faced each other across the voids in their lives. Lucas broke the bond with a ragged laugh. ‘I know he’s still alive. I’ve got proof of it. One day I’ll catch up with him, and when I do…’ Lucas swung his head and stared into the wave glitter.

‘I pray that the day will come soon,’ said Aiken. He took up his book again. ‘If you don’t mind… I suspect I won’t have much time for reading in the barracks.’

Hebdomon Fort on the Marmara shore housed four squadrons, each occupying a square complex with three barracks, a bath house large enough to serve a hundred men, a stable block, a parade ground, granaries, storerooms and an armoury. Outside the perimeter an exercise field sloped down to the sea.

A guard at the gate marched Lucas and Aiken to the duty officer’s quarters. Soldiers lounging outside their barracks followed their progress with mild curiosity. Vallon was right about them being drawn from all corners and cultures. Lucas saw blue-eyed, tattooed giants from realms of mist and snow, agate-eyed Turks as lean as whips, small dark men from unknown mountain fastnesses, warriors with tribal scars. Some wore beards; others were clean-shaven. The only thing they seemed to have in common was a drab green uniform and an unforced air of toughness.

The guard led the two youths inside one of the barracks, stopped outside an office and saluted. ‘The new troopers reporting for duty, sir.’

A trim man of middling height rose from a table covered with papers. His fingers were ink-stained and his eyes strained from writing. An embroidered gold roundel on his tunic indicated his rank.

‘My name’s Josselin,’ he said in French. ‘Second Centurion in the Outlanders. You’ll be attached to my hekatontarchia . Your pay is six solidi a year, rising to nine solidi after a year’s service. Payment is made every four months. Trooper Lucas, half your pay will be withheld to pay off the cost of your horse and equipment. At that rate you’ll clear the debt in three years — unless you win promotion or share in the spoils of war. It’s important that you learn to speak Greek. I’ve arranged lessons for you — an hour a day after your ordinary duties.’

Centurion Josselin then lectured them about hygiene and warned them about the perils of gambling and intercourse with either sex. ‘The punishment for minor offences ranges from withdrawal of your wine ration to a twenty-mile forced march in full kit. More serious offences merit a flogging. Vallon doesn’t like seeing his men flogged; he’d rather dismiss the offender. For treachery or desertion, the sentence is death. In six years, we’ve had only two executions. Have you taken all that in?’

Lucas had listened in a daze. All he could think of was that he was in a cavalry unit and was even being paid and fed.

He and Aiken went through the swearing-in ceremony. ‘We swear by God, Christ and the Holy Spirit, and by the Majesty of the Emperor — which second to God is to be loved and worshipped as His commander on Earth — that we will strenuously do all that the Emperor may command, will never desert the service, nor refuse to die for the Byzantine state.’

‘You’re now members of the Outlanders,’ said Josselin. He nodded at the waiting guard. ‘Show these men their billet.’

Eight men occupied two adjoining whitewashed rooms in one of the barracks. The outer chamber was a common room. Some off-duty troopers broke off games of dice. Three NCOs stood to receive the new recruits. A man with gap teeth laughed.

‘Maybe we should change our name to the Baby-Snatchers.’

‘That will do,’ said the tall, slope-shouldered senior NCO. He studied the new recruits. ‘I’m Aimery, your dekarchos, leader of ten.’ He spoke softly and had a kindly manner. He gestured at the other soldiers. ‘These are your squadmates. You’ll eat, sleep and drill with them. On campaign you’ll share a tent and in battle you’ll fight as a unit. Your beds are in the next room. Keep them immaculate.’

‘What happened to the men we’re replacing?’ said Aiken.

Aimery’s expression didn’t alter. ‘One died of fever on the Danube, the other was killed by the Normans at Dyrrachium.’

He showed the recruits into the dormitory, its floor clean enough to eat off. Aiken dumped two heavy kitbags on his bed. Lucas possessed only a few personal items in a satchel.

Aimery turned to one of his NCOs. ‘Gorka, take trooper Lucas to the stores. Gorka is my pentarchos , leader of five. He’ll be in charge of your basic training.’

Even before the sergeant said the name, Lucas had guessed that Gorka was a Basque. The heavy brow forming a straight line, the long ear lobes, the barrel chest. On the walk to the quartermaster’s store, Lucas wondered if he should tender some remark about their shared homeland, but decided from Gorka’s expression that pleasantries weren’t in order.

Gorka dumped himself on a bale of tents while the quartermaster outfitted Lucas. He handed him two knee-length tunics, two pairs of breeches, all in linen, and a wide leather belt. For cold weather he provided an ankle-length woollen tunic and a wool cloak fastened by a fibula in the shape of a flying falcon. The same motif was woven on the right chest of the tunics. A felt hat and two pairs of sandals completed Lucas’s day-to-day wear.

‘I expected the uniform to be more colourful,’ Lucas said.

Gorka came off the bale. ‘Colourful,’ he said. He looked from side to side as if he doubted his hearing. ‘We’re scouts and raiders. We blend in. We don’t flutter around like a bunch of butterflies.’