Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

What followed was abject humiliation. Lucas managed a few counters but was always one move behind and on the back foot. Stefan landed two blows to the ribs that hurt even through the padding, followed up with a blow to the helmet that made Lucas see stars, and finished by chopping Lucas’s wrist with a clip that numbed him to the elbow.

Almost weeping from pain and shame, he picked up his fallen sword.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Gorka. ‘That was a pleasure to watch.’ He squinted at Lucas. ‘In future, you do exactly what I tell you.’ He turned on his heel. ‘Now collect your horses and we’ll try you with lance and javelin.’

Lucas partly redeemed himself in these exercises, which involved throwing a javelin at a straw dummy from horseback and aiming a lance at the quintain. Aiken showed no aptitude at all, unable to strike either target even at a canter, while Lucas hit the quintain at his first pass and only missed by a whisker with the javelin.

Gorka regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘Again, at an extended canter.’

Lucas hit both targets. Aiken took a blow in the back from the quintain as it spun round from his half-hearted effort.

Gorka put his hands on his hips. ‘This time at a gallop.’

Lucas trotted off, turned, patted Aster’s neck and spurred him into a charge. He drew back the javelin and launched, the point taking the target square in the chest. He trotted back to pick up the lance, swung round and once more galloped up to the quintain, hitting it with a force that spun it twice on its axis.

Gorka eyed him. ‘You’ve done that before.’

‘Many times, but only in my imagination.’

Next it was archery under the supervision of a Pecheneg called Gan, a horse nomad recruited from the steppes north of the Danube. He wore his hair in long braids behind his ears and his eyes were crescent slivers above padded cheekbones. He didn’t speak French and Gorka had to translate.

‘Show Gan your draw,’ he told the recruits.

Lucas demonstrated. He sneaked a glance at Gorka. ‘I’m used to a heavier bow.’

‘You need a light bow to develop the correct technique. You have to learn a new method of releasing. Have you got your thumb ring?’

Lucas fished it out. Gan produced one of his own and demonstrated how to use it, sliding it over the first thumb joint with the flat side of the projection facing back. Gorka relayed instructions. ‘See how he hooks the ring onto the string and holds it in place by gripping the tip of his thumb with his forefinger. That way the string doesn’t touch the finger — less strain and no finger-pinch, meaning greater accuracy.’

Three times Gan went through the sequence of preliminary moves before releasing the arrow. He swivelled at the hip, drawing with the bow above his head, then in an extension of the move, he lowered it and loosed without apparent aim at a butt about sixty yards away. Lucas blinked as it struck, blinked again as Gan shot another arrow. Nor did the archer stop there. In the space of a minute he released twelve arrows with breathtaking fluency. Every arrow hit the mark.

‘Gan’s as accurate on horseback at full gallop,’ said Gorka. He stepped back. ‘Now you try.’

The technique seemed pretty basic, yet no matter how hard Lucas concentrated, he couldn’t master the knack. With his first few attempts, he couldn’t even string the arrow. It kept dropping off. When he did draw, he couldn’t time the release. On his sixth attempt, the bowstring caught the tip of his thumb, ripping off the end of his nail and leaving the nail bed bleeding.

‘You’re releasing too slow,’ said Gorka. ‘Imagine you’re flicking a marble.’

By the time the session was over, Lucas had taken the skin off his left wrist and his best shot hadn’t come within five feet of the target. What made it more galling was the fact that Aiken landed two arrows on the mark.

‘It takes practice,’ said Gorka. ‘Practice, practice, practice.’ He nodded at something Gan said and translated. ‘If you ignore archery for one day, it will desert you for ten.’

Walking back to the dormitory, Lucas vowed to master all branches of weaponry. He knew he would never achieve the standard of the Turkish archers who had drawn their first bows at the age of five, but he would do his best.

‘You impressed Gorka with your equestrian skills,’ Aiken said.

Lucas decided he could afford a concession. ‘You handled the bow better.’

Aiken shrugged. ‘I’ve been using the thumb ring for years. Another week and you’ll have left me behind.’

‘You don’t seem to care.’

‘Not really.’

‘Then why did you join the cavalry?’

‘Because Beorn wished it and because Vallon insists I honour those wishes.’

‘What would you prefer to be doing?’

‘Studying philosophy and natural science.’

‘You’re weird.’

That was as close as Lucas came to unbending with Aiken. Over the following days he grew increasingly irked by the fact that though he surpassed Aiken in every branch of arms, Gorka overlooked the English youth’s cack-handed deficiencies and treated him with a respect that bordered on deference — all because he was the adopted son of their commander. Meanwhile, he pounced on every mistake that Lucas made.

Rancour spilled over on the morning Josselin was due to inspect his century. Lucas pulled on his shabby armour. Not only was it second-hand, but it looked as if it had been stripped from a battle casualty, with two obstinate stains he was sure were blood. He picked up his helmet, eyeing the fresh dent Stefan had inflicted. All the polishing in the world wasn’t going to make it look like anything other than a stew-pot. When he’d finished dressing, he watched with sour envy as Aiken donned his outfit. Over a patterned quilt undercoat he pulled on a corselet of lamellar armour made up of overlapping blued steel plates, the rounded ends facing upwards. He fitted shoulder guards and arm plates.

‘That lot’s wasted on you,’ Lucas said.

Gorka stuck his head around the door. ‘Aren’t you ready yet? There’ll be hell to pay if you’re late.’

Red-faced and sweating, Aiken sat on his bed struggling to strap iron greaves to his calves. He threw Lucas a desperate look. ‘Lend a hand, will you?’

Lucas almost refused. Let him be late for the inspection and suffer the consequences. With ill grace, Lucas knelt and buckled on the greaves. ‘I suppose Vallon paid for all this.’

‘With the money I inherited from my father.’

‘I don’t understand why he would waste so much gold on someone with so little military aptitude.’

‘It’s because I lack soldierly skills that I need the armour. It’s the only thing protecting me.’

‘And you expect me to fight at your side.’

Aiken looked down, smiling. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t rely on me. I’ll probably run away as soon as I see the enemy.’

Lucas tightened the last strap with a savage jerk. ‘You even boast of your cowardice.’

The dekarchos heard him. Aimery strolled up, a musing expression on his face. His thoughts always seemed to be miles away. ‘You’re looking fit today, trooper.’

Lucas scrambled to attention. ‘Sir.’

‘Have you seen much of our beautiful city?’

‘Not a lot, sir. I only spent one night in it and somebody tried to kill me.’

‘I wonder why I’m not surprised. Could it be that you have a knack for putting people’s backs up?’

‘Sir.’

Aimery stood with legs akimbo, hands behind his back. ‘Since you’ve had no chance to enjoy the sights, I’ve got a treat for you. Run around the city walls as far as the Golden Horn. The Gate of Charisius is particularly fine, I’m told. I’d be interested to hear your description of it when you return.’