Robert Lyndon: Hawk Quest

‘He’s going,’ the youth murmured.

The old man’s eye flicked open and fixed on Vallon. He whispered — a rustle like crumpled parchment relaxing. Then his stare travelled up to some region beyond sight. When Vallon looked down, the eye was already veiled.

Silence gathered like a mist.

‘What did he say?’

‘I’m not sure,’ the youth sobbed. ‘Something about the mystery of the rivers.’

Vallon crossed himself. ‘Who was he?’

The youth snuffled. ‘Cosmas of Byzantium, also called Mono — phalmos, the “One-Eyed”.’

‘A priest?’

‘Philosopher, geographer and diplomat. The greatest explorer of our age. He’s sailed up the Nile to the pyramid at Giza, explored the palace at Petra, read manuscripts from Pergamum given by Mark Antony to Queen Cleopatra. He’s seen lapis lazuli mines in Persia, unicorn hunts in Arabia, clove and pepper plantations in India.’

‘You’re a Greek, too.’

‘Yes, sir. From Syracuse in Sicily.’

Fatigue quenched Vallon’s curiosity. The fire was nearly out. He lay down on the dirt floor and wrapped his cloak about him. Sleep wouldn’t come. The Sicilian was intoning a mass, the dirge merging with the droning wind.

Vallon hoisted himself on one elbow. ‘That’s enough. Your master’s at rest. Now let me take mine.’

‘I swore to keep him safe. And within a month, he’s dead.’

Vallon pulled his cloak over his head. ‘He is safe. Now go to sleep.’

He skated in and out of nasty dreams. Surfacing from one hagridden doze, he saw the Sicilian crouched over the Greek, sliding the ring from his master’s hand. He’d already removed the fine fur cloak. Vallon sat up.

Their eyes met. The Sicilian carried the cape across and arranged it over Vallon’s shoulders. Vallon said nothing. The Sicilian went back to his corner and stretched out with a groan. Vallon placed his sword upright on the ground and rested his chin on the pommel. He stared ahead, blinking like an owl, each blink a memory, each blink slower than the last until his eyes stayed closed and he fell asleep to the roar of the storm.

He woke to the dripping of water and mysterious muffled thuds. Daylight filtered through chinks in the walls. A mouse scurried from his side, where the Sicilian had laid white bread, cheese, some figs and a leather flask. Vallon took the meal to the door and stepped into scorching sunshine. Streams of meltwater braided the cliffs. Footprints ploughed a blue furrow towards animal pens. A slab of snow flopped from an overhang. Vallon squinted up at the pass, half-wondering if the party had reached the summit refuge. During his halt there, a monk had shown him an ice chamber stacked with the corpses of travellers withered in the postures in which they’d been dug from the snow. Vallon tilted the flask and swallowed tart red wine. A glow spread through him. When he’d eaten, he cleaned his teeth with a twig and rinsed out his mouth.

Only a spear’s throw from the hut, the gorge plunged into shadows. He went to the brink, loosened his breeches and pissed, aware that if his path last night had strayed by an arm’s span, he would now be a mash of blood and bones too deep in the earth even for vultures to find.

Back inside the hut he lit the lamp with flint and steel and gathered his possessions. The Greek lay like an effigy, hands folded on his chest.

‘I wish we’d had time to talk,’ Vallon heard himself say. ‘There are things you might be able to explain.’ A bitter taste filled his mouth and there was a deadness at his core.

A raven croaked overhead. Vallon bowed and blew out the lamp. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again, when death has laid his consoling hand on my heart.’

He padded towards the door and pulled it open to find the Sicilian waiting with a trim bay pony and a fine grey mule. Vallon almost smiled at the contrast between the youth’s mournful expression and the gaiety of his costume. He wore a wool cloak trimmed with blue satin, pointed shoes of laughable impracticality, and a soft round hat sporting a jaunty cockade. It wasn’t just fright that made his eyes bulge; nature had given him an expression of permanent startlement. He had a nose like a quill and the lips of a girl.

‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘What! Leave my master before committing him to rest?’

A proper burial was impossible in that stony ground. They laid him in a scrape overlooking the south and heaped rocks over him. The Sicilian planted a makeshift cross on the cairn. After praying, he gazed around at the peaks and glaciers.

‘He insisted on being buried where he died, but how bitter that a man who’s witnessed the glories of civilisation should lie in such a savage spot.’

A vulture trailed its hunger across the slopes. The clanking of cow bells floated up from distant pastures.

Vallon rose from his knees. ‘He chose his grave well. He has the whole world at his feet now.’ He mounted the mule and turned it downhill. ‘My thanks for the food.’

‘Wait!’

Deep drifts blocked Vallon’s path. It was like wading through icy gruel. But the foothills shimmered in hazy heat. By noon he would be riding over soft green turf. This evening he would dine on hot meat and blue-red wine.

‘Sir, I beg you.’

‘You have an uphill path. You’d better start now if you want to cross the pass by nightfall.’

The Sicilian caught up, panting. ‘Aren’t you curious to know what adventure set us on this path?’

‘On a lonely road, it’s not wise to confide in strangers.’

‘I was with my master for only three weeks. But his journey began two months earlier, at Manzikert.’

That checked Vallon. He’d first heard of Manzikert in an inn near the Rhone. Since then he’d been bumping into the story at every wayside halt, the tale growing wilder with each telling. Most accounts agreed that in late summer a Muslim army had defeated the Emperor of Byzantium at a place called Manzikert, on the eastern marches of Anatolia. Some travellers said that the Emperor Rom anus had been taken captive. Others that he was dead or deposed, that the pilgrim route to Jerusalem was closed, that the Muslims were camped outside the walls of Constantinople. Most alarming of all, these invaders weren’t Arabs, but a race of Turkoman nomads who had swarmed out of the east like locusts only a generation ago. Seljuks, they called themselves — half-man, half-horse, drinkers of blood.

‘Your master travelled with the Emperor’s army?’

‘As an adviser on the Turks’ customs. He survived the slaughter and helped negotiate ransom terms for the Byzantine lords and their allies. When that was done, he returned to Constantinople, took a ship to Italy and crossed to the monastery at Monte Cassino. One of his oldest friends is a monk there — Constantine of Africa.’ The Sicilian’s eyes bulged expectantly.

Vallon shook his head.

‘The most brilliant physician in Christendom. Before entering the monastery, he taught at the Salerno medical school. Where,’ the Sicilian declared, grinning with pride, ‘I’m a student. When Cosmas explained the purpose of his journey, Constantine selected me to be his secretary and travelling companion.’

Vallon must have raised his eyebrows.

‘Sir, I’m a promising physician. I’m well schooled in the classics and can speak Arabic. My French is adequate, you’ll agree. I also know geometry and algebra, and can expound the astronomical theories of Ptolemy, Hipparchus and Alhazen. In short, Constantine considered that I was qualified to minister to my master’s physical needs, and wouldn’t affront his intellect.’

‘It must,’ Vallon said, ‘be an extremely important mission.’

The Sicilian slid out a packet wrapped in linen.