Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Foul weather was brewing and the afternoon was all but done by the time the ships had worked their way to shore. Vallon and his aides climbed aboard Pelican and handed Captain Iannis a sealed letter.

‘Deliver it to the Logothete tou Dromou in person.’

‘Aren’t you returning with us?’

‘No,’ said Vallon. He measured the remaining daylight. ‘Leave now and use the night and rain to put distance between yourself and the enemy.’

He was at the gangplank when he checked, his gaze stopping at the Greek Fire siphon in the bow. ‘Take that,’ he told Josselin, ‘together with half a dozen barrels of the fire compound. And while you’re about it, dismantle the trebuchet. That’s coming with us, too.’

‘General, we have only enough pack animals to carry a week’s rations and other essentials.’

‘We don’t know what’s essential on a journey such as ours. We can always discard unnecessary baggage.’

All through the twilight Vallon strode from ship to ship, exhorting his men to greater efforts. They landed the last barrels and bales in a drenching mizzle and it was full dark before they’d loaded the supplies and the baggage train stood ready to depart. Vallon walked down to the sea’s edge.

‘Can you hear me?’

Faint and far came Thraco’s reply. ‘I hear you.’

‘We’re leaving. You’ll find the prisoners unharmed on the causeway.’

Thraco’s response followed them into the soggy night. ‘You’re going nowhere. You’ll never get through the Caucasus. Either the natives will slaughter you, or what’s left of your squadron will straggle back to Trebizond. And we’ll be waiting.’

The column crawled across the causeway in pelting rain, the flames of their torches reflected in the water and frogs croaking on all sides. Mosquitoes plagued them. Several times the wagons bogged down to their axles and had to be unloaded before they could be hauled free. Voices rose in complaint. Why hadn’t they sailed back on Pelican ? Where was Vallon leading them?

A warning shout at the head of the column heralded the return of a scout. It was Wayland. Vallon scuffed mosquitoes from his face. ‘Where in Hades are we? How much further before we get out of this swamp?’

‘Only about a mile, but it would be safer to camp in the marsh. The villagers who fled have probably raised the alarm. I’ve found a patch of firm ground where we can pitch tents. The wagons will have to remain on the causeway.’

He led the way to the site. Vallon slid stiff-limbed from his horse and handed the reins to Wulfstan. ‘Tell the officers to report to my quarters when they’ve eaten.’

His own meal was hardtack soaked in wine, chewed outside in the rain while servants struggled to erect his command tent. It must have been around midnight before his centurions crammed in, along with Wayland, Hero and Wulfstan.

Vallon slapped his neck. ‘Damn these blood-sucking fly-by-nights.’ He settled on a camp stool. ‘Well, let’s hear what you have to say.’ He indicated Hero and Wayland and managed to overlook Wulfstan. ‘You know I respect their judgement as much as I value yours,’ he told the officers.

Josselin spoke first. ‘Why didn’t you sail back to Constantinople on Pelican ?’

Vallon’s laugh could have come from a coffin. ‘Even if we eluded the warships, I doubt that the emperor would shower us with honours for abandoning our mission after little more than a week.’

‘Does that mean you intend to continue?’

Vallon stared into space for a moment. ‘That’s what we have to decide. In some ways, nothing has changed. We still have the treasure and the traitors haven’t reduced our strength by much. I count myself better off without the duke in charge. He was only a figurehead, after all, and a damned unpleasant one at that. The Chinese won’t know our rank or pedigree. We can give ourselves any titles we please.’ He grinned at Otia. ‘How would you like to be the Byzantine ambassador to the Song court?’

Otia’s demeanour remained grave. ‘What are you going to do with Duke Skleros?’

‘I’ll settle his fate in good time. I take it that he’s well-guarded.’

‘By four men, sir, night and day.’

Wulfstan sniffed. ‘Kill the bastard, sir.’

Vallon eyed him asquint. ‘I’m not sure in what capacity you’re attending this meeting.’

‘Right-hand man, sir. Loyal servant and bodyguard.’

Vallon let it pass. ‘He certainly deserves to be executed, but he might still serve some purpose as a hostage.’ He swivelled and looked around the cluttered interior. ‘The maps,’ he said. ‘I need to establish our position.’

Hero rummaged in a chest and unearthed a goatskin scroll. Vallon unrolled it on a camp table, weighting the corners down with oil lamps. ‘We’re a long way north from our planned line of march through Persia.’

In tactful silence, Hero turned the chart the right way round. It was a copy of Ptolemy of Alexandria’s map of the known world, updated with material borrowed from the best Arab cartographers. Hero tapped it. ‘We’re roughly here,’ he said. ‘North of Armenia, south of Rus, between the two main ranges of the Caucasus.’ His finger slid south-east. ‘Persia lies here.’

The others gathered round, trying to make sense of the world flattened into two dimensions. ‘Otia,’ said Vallon, ‘which route would you recommend?’

It was apparent that the centurion couldn’t make head or tail of the chart. He scratched his head. ‘If I wanted to get to Persia, I wouldn’t start from here. The easiest way is south, following the coast. The problem is that course would bring us to Armenia, only a few days’ ride east of Trebizond. It’s the route the duke’s men will expect us to take and that’s where they’ll be waiting for us.’ Giving up on the map, Otia pointed towards where he imagined Persia to lie. ‘Take the direct route and we’d have to fight our way through mountains, a dead end every second turn and tribesmen contesting every mile.’

‘He’s right,’ Hero said. ‘That’s the route Xenophon took on his retreat from Persia. He lost hundreds on the march.’

Vallon made an impatient gesture. ‘Why can’t we head east and follow the Caspian shore until we reach Persia? Surely that’s the shortest way.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Otia said. ‘But it would take us through Kutaisi, the Georgian capital. Even if the king granted us a safe conduct, we’d still have to pass through Tiflis and the eastern provinces — all of them held by the Seljuks.’

Vallon stirred in irritation. ‘Are you saying there’s no way off this coast?’

Otia hesitated. ‘The only way to avoid the main Georgian and Seljuk strongholds would be to follow the Phasis upriver into Svaneti, deep in the Caucasus. From there we’d have to take mountain trails east and then cross the northern Caucasus by a high pass before descending towards the Caspian.’

‘Anyone got any better ideas?’ Vallon demanded. ‘No? Then that’s the route we’ll take. Why didn’t you say so before, Otia?’

The Georgian winced. ‘General, the Caucasus is savage country inhabited by wild clans. Each valley is a world to itself, with its own language and customs. Blood feuds run like a spurting vein through society. The only thing the mountain men hold in common is a murderous hostility to outsiders — and that can mean folk from the next valley. Something else you should know. Many Georgians fleeing from the Seljuk invaders have taken refuge in the mountains. They won’t look tenderly on a force containing so many Turkmen.’

The rain had hardened, falling on the tent with a steady hiss that eventually made its own silence.

Vallon scratched his neck. ‘You wouldn’t have suggested the route unless you thought it was passable. You know the country and you know the perils. That’s a great advantage compared to the unknown alternatives. Now then, from this Svaneti can you lead us through the mountains — following some pass known only to a few shepherds?’