Imperial Fire

IX

Hero removed the bandage from Lucas’s head and examined the wound. ‘Those stitches can come out. You’re a quick healer and you’ve got a thick skull. How are your ribs?’

‘Knitting well. I’ve seen Wayland. He looks exactly as I imagined him. Eyes like blue flames.’

‘Why are you grinning like that?’

Lucas reclined on his pillows. ‘I’ve been thinking. First you arrive in Constantinople and then a week later Wayland turns up.’

‘So?’

‘It’s obvious. You must be off on another adventure.’

Hero bridled. ‘For an uninvited guest, you display unwarranted familiarity. In any case, you’re wrong. Wayland’s returning to England with his family.’

Lucas watched Hero make for the door. ‘I know something’s going on. I’ve never seen Wulfstan so cheerful, singing hymns all day long. And yesterday I saw him sharpening his sword and polishing his armour. He’s preparing to go on campaign.’

Hero seemed about to speak, thought better of it, then exited, leaving Lucas grinning in his wake.

A few days later Lucas was staring, bored and fretful, through the window when Wulfstan stuck his head through the door. ‘Are you up to riding a horse?’

‘Of course I am. There isn’t a steed I can’t manage.’

‘Don’t be so cocky. The general doesn’t like it and it’s him you have to impress.’

‘You mean…’

‘No promises, but demonstrate you’re a good horseman and Vallon might find you a place in his squadron.’

For all Lucas’s swagger, he approached the stable with churning trepidation. Vallon’s casual glance struck like a blow. This was the first time the general had seen his face. Surely he’d spot some family resemblance.

Vallon barely registered his presence before nodding at a placid-looking bay mare.

‘Let’s see if your actions match your boasts.’

Lucas swung into the saddle with one move and waited for Vallon to mount with stiff decorum. They ambled out into the open country beyond Galata. Vallon drew rein.

‘Show me your paces. Don’t force it. Have consideration for your ribs.’

For the next half hour, Lucas trotted, cantered, wheeled, stopped and backed up, finally urging his horse into a circling gallop that brought him up short within three feet of the general.

‘I’m used to more fiery mounts,’ he gasped.

‘When did you learn to ride?’

‘Before I could walk.’

‘That would explain your good seat. I like the way you don’t rely too much on your stirrups.’

‘I didn’t ride with stirrups until I was eight.’

Vallon watched a buzzard rising on a thermal. ‘Are you fit enough to wield a sword in earnest? If not, say so. I won’t hold it against you.’

‘I think I am, sir.’

Without another word, Vallon turned his horse and headed back to the villa. Lucas kept darting glances at him, words rising unbidden before choking in his throat.

‘Is something bothering you?’ Vallon said without looking round.

‘No, sir.’ Lucas’s tongue felt thick. Now wasn’t the time. He’d know the right moment when it came.

Next morning Wulfstan arrived with a suit of padded lint, a helmet and a wooden practice sword.

‘Who am I fighting?’

‘Aiken.’

‘Aiken! He fights like a girl.’

Wulfstan’s eyes widened alarmingly. ‘Would you rather cross blades with me?’

‘It would be a more even contest.’

The Viking clipped Lucas around the head. ‘Cheeky bastard. Even with only one hand, I could spit you in six moves. That’s for another day. Come on. Vallon’s waiting.’

In the courtyard garden that served for an arena, Aiken mooched in nervous circles. Vallon and Hero stood at a distance.

‘Don your helmets,’ Wulfstan said.

‘I don’t need one,’ said Lucas. ‘It’s not as if we’re using real swords.’

Wulfstan bristled. ‘I’ve seen men die from pates cracked by practice swords. Put it on.’ He retreated a few paces. ‘Bow, touch swords and engage.’

For a while Aiken held his own, countering with some elegant moves and even threatening a flank attack. Once Lucas broke through his guard, though, the English youth’s defences collapsed. He fell apart, shrinking into a flat-footed cringe and wafting his sword in a feeble attempt to keep his opponent at bay. Lucas rained blows on him, each stroke precisely delivered, one to each quarter and then a one-two to the head that staggered Aiken. Lucas began to play with his opponent, walking in a tight circle around him, naming the part he would strike next.

‘That’s enough,’ said Wulfstan. He grabbed Lucas’s arm. ‘I said that’s enough.’

Lucas lowered his sword and skipped from foot to foot, panting and sweating. ‘I still haven’t recovered my full strength.’

Aiken, scarlet with humiliation, swung his sword listlessly then walked away.

Wulfstan and Vallon conversed. Lucas waited for their verdict, smug in the knowledge that he’d trounced an opponent who’d received professional training. His grin died when Vallon beckoned him over.

‘Your master taught you well, but you’ve got a lot to learn. For a start, you don’t toy with an opponent. If he presents an opening, you go for the kill. That’s your job. Showing off is unprofessional, vain and ugly. I won’t allow it in my command.’

Lucas reddened and looked down. ‘Does that mean you’ll let me serve under your standard?’

‘Tomorrow you join the Outlanders at Hebdomon. Aiken will be going with you. The two of you will be the youngest members of the squadron. I trust that you’ll look out for each other, like true spear-companions.’

Lucas’s chest fluttered with excitement. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘There are only twenty Franks in the squadron. The rest are drawn from all over the empire and beyond. That’s why we’re called the Outlanders. You’ll be serving alongside Thracians, Macedonians, Bulgarians, Serbs, Poles, Hungarians, Russians, Armenians, Pechenegs, Cumans, Seljuks… If God made him, he’s in my squadron. And the thing is, they’re a tight outfit, rough and ready but always loyal to each other. Fit in and they’ll defend you to the death. Show them the contemptuous attitude you presented to Aiken and they’ll smother you under your mattress on your first night.’

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.’

Lucas flinched from his gaze. Gorka’s green-brown eyes suggested a capacity for infinite malice. He lurched towards the door with a wrestler’s gait and Lucas followed, resolving to keep his mouth shut.

The armoury was the next stop — a hall surrounded by a warren of bays and alcoves exuding the odours of leather, iron and wax. A one-legged veteran and three assistants presided over the martial emporium. The armourer, propped on crutches, sized Lucas up and said something. An assistant rummaged in one of the bays and brought back a heavy quilted jacket that had seen better days. On it he placed a battered iron helmet with an aventail of boiled-leather lappets that gave some protection to the neck. He also produced a pair of knee-length leather boots. Lucas was disappointed. He’d dreamed of receiving a bodice of mail or, even better, a coat of lamellar armour.

Gorka read his mind. ‘Forget it. You’d still be paying off mail or scale by the time you retire. The only way you’ll come by decent armour is by stripping it off the enemy.’

The armourer’s assistants had disappeared into the bowels of the depot. One came back with a short recurved bow, a canvas case and three coiled bowstrings. The second with a lance and two javelins. The third with a shield and sword.

Gorka picked up the bow. ‘Ever used one of these?’

‘Not a bow shaped like that.’

‘It’s Turkish, designed to be shot from horseback.’

Lucas opened his mouth.

So did Gorka. ‘Got something to say?’

‘I wasn’t expecting to be deployed as an archer. The Normans don’t — ’

Gorka was chest to chest with him in a flash. ‘We don’t fight like Normans. Every man in our squadron must be skilled with sword, bow and lance.’

‘Sir.’

‘No need to “sir” me. Call me “boss”.’

‘Yessir… boss.’

Gorka demonstrated how the bow fitted into its case. ‘You keep the cover waterproofed with wax and tallow.’ He patted a pocket on the side. ‘Strings go in there. No excuse for a limp bow or slack string.’

The armourer took hold of Lucas’s right hand, examined the thumb and emptied a box of curious-looking horn rings onto the counter. A projection stuck out from the thick bands, curved on one side, flat on the other. He selected one and twisted it onto Lucas’s thumb. Too large, apparently, the next too small. He tried three more before finding one that fitted neatly behind the first thumb joint.

‘Your archery instructor will show you what it’s for,’ said Gorka. ‘Don’t lose it.’

Lucas regarded the scabbarded sword, the haft wrapped with scuffed and sweat-stained leather, the pommel a roughly worked iron finial. He looked for permission to handle it, and when Gorka nodded, he drew the blade. A workaday weapon that had seen a lot of use, the metal pitted and nicks along both edges. Even so, he grinned as he angled it to the light. He took up the circular shield, leather-covered on a wicker base, the front painted with a white falcon on a field of green. It looked magnificent. He fitted his hand in the grip and took guard.

‘You keep your equipment spick and span,’ Gorka said. ‘Centurion Josselin holds a weekly inspection and woe betide if you fall short. You can start by polishing your helmet. And I see some of the stitching on the corselet is working loose. And those boots could do with a polish. Pick your kit up later. Now we’ll see about a horse.’

‘Why isn’t Aiken with us?’ Lucas asked on the way to the stables.

‘Trooper Aiken’s outfit was sent on ahead.’

Of course. Vallon would have supplied Aiken with brand-new equipment at his own expense, all of the best quality and of Aiken’s choosing. The sour thought dissolved as Lucas approached the stables. Please God, he prayed, don’t let them give me a broken-down nag.

The chief groom led them between two lines of stalls, Lucas breathing in the peppery scents of horse flesh, dung and tack. He hardly knew where to look. There wasn’t a horse in the stable that he didn’t admire. The groom stopped at a stall housing a dappled grey gelding. One look at its head, its full, intelligent eyes, and Lucas knew he hadn’t been given second best. He looked over the stall and uttered a sort of moan before turning with shining eyes.

‘For me?’

Gorka sniffed. ‘The general says you’re not a bad rider. His name’s Aster. He’s five years old. Treat him well.’

Lucas stroked Aster’s muzzle and murmured his name. The horse blew in his face and his heart brimmed over. He spoke to cover his emotions. ‘Do the officers ride stallions?’

Gorka snorted. ‘Our horses are our friends. Unlike the Normans, we don’t want to be forever fighting the brutes.’

On the walk back to his quarters, Lucas summoned up the courage to ask a question. ‘Sir… boss… can I visit the stables in my free time?’

Gorka glanced at him. ‘Free time? You won’t see any of that, laddie.’

If that day was anything to go by, he was right. Lucas fell into bed long after the other troopers had given up their games, having spent an hour with his Greek tutor and two hours polishing his sword and helmet. Aiken slept next to him and over his bed hung a magnificent suit of armour.

‘I could help you with your Greek,’ Aiken said.

Lucas stirred from a doze. ‘I can manage.’

‘Do you like your horse?’

‘He’s not bad,’ Lucas said. ‘Better than I expected.’

‘Hero bought him for you.’

‘Hero? Why would he do that?’

‘He’s kind. He’s the main reason why I decided to come.’

Lucas sank back. ‘Do you know what we’re doing tomorrow?’

‘They’re going to test our weapon skills.’ Aiken shivered. ‘I’m dreading it.’

After reveille and ablutions, Aimery inspected his unit before they headed for the mess hall and a breakfast of millet porridge, wheat bread and watered wine. Then they swept and scrubbed their quarters under Gorka’s merciless scrutiny.

‘Bring your weapons,’ he said. ‘Today I’ll find out how much grief you’re going to cause me.’ He led the way to the exercise ground and halted in a space surrounded by dozens of other soldiers practising their martial skills. ‘First, a sparring session with practice swords.’ He frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’

Lucas knew he was taking a risk. ‘I’ve already been tested against Aiken and trounced him. I should face a sterner match.’

Aiken reddened under Gorka’s scrutiny. ‘It’s true.’

Gorka turned to Lucas with a dreamy smile. ‘So you fancy yourself as a swordsman.’

‘General Vallon himself said I showed promise.’

Gorka allowed himself a moment of malign speculation before scanning the arena. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Sergeant Stefan, I wonder if you could spare a moment.’

A hard-bitten little Serb wandered up, practice sword resting over his shoulder. Gorka cocked a finger at Lucas. ‘Our new trooper thinks he needs tougher opposition than his spear-companion can offer. Perhaps you’d oblige.’

Stefan smiled a pleasant smile and raised his sword. Lucas took guard.

A blur of movement and he was looking cross-eyed down Stefan’s blade, the point arrested a few inches short of his throat.

‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said.

Gorka laughed. ‘All Stefan’s opponents would have said that if they were still alive to speak.’

Again Lucas took guard. Stefan crooked his brows in enquiry. Lucas nodded and shifted from foot to foot. This time he almost made contact with Stefan’s sword before the blade threatened his head again.

He skipped back. ‘It’s not a style I’m used to.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Gorka. ‘Not his style.’ He lowered his head and shouted into Lucas’s face. ‘The enemy doesn’t ask what style of swordplay you prefer before engaging in combat.’ He smiled his evil smile. ‘Still, the lad’s young. Sergeant, let him fight the way he’s used to.’

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.’

There and back was twenty miles and by the time Lucas hobbled into barracks after sunset, his calf muscles were so cramped that he was forced to walk backwards.

After washing his blistered feet, he fell onto his cot and lay staring at the ceiling.

‘Here,’ said Aiken, sliding across a hunk of bread.

Lucas didn’t thank him. ‘If it had been you who’d done the mocking, no one would have punished you.’

Aiken propped himself on one elbow. ‘I don’t understand your animosity. From the moment we met, you’ve had it in for me. What harm have I ever done you? Well? Answer.’

Lucas rolled over. ‘You’ll find out.’

Two days later Vallon rode into the barracks, provoking a scurry of activity.

‘Everyone to the parade ground,’ Aimery shouted. ‘At the double.’

Lucas heard similar orders ringing out from the other barracks. ‘What’s all the excitement about?’

‘It’s the beginning of the campaign season,’ Gorka said. ‘Vallon’s going to give us our marching orders.’

The unit marched out into a glorious April day. Vallon and his centurions sat their fine horses, the sea behind them the colour of hyacinths under an unclouded sky. For the first time Lucas laid eyes on the other centurions. Conrad, the shaven-headed and craggy German second-in command, looked as if he’d been hewn from rock. Otia, the Georgian, with his jet-black hair, wavy beard and beautiful dark eyes, resembled a melancholy saint in an icon. Lucas had heard that in ordinary life, Otia was the most self-effacing of men, but that in battle he was a maniac.

‘Squadron form ranks,’ Conrad ordered.

The men formed up in three lines, Lucas’s unit on the right of the rear rank.

Vallon pitched his voice to carry. ‘Can everybody hear me?’

‘Sir!’ the squadron shouted.

A breeze blew a lock of hair across Vallon’s face. He brushed it back. ‘No doubt you’ve been wondering where your next tour of duty will take you. Well, I for one won’t be returning to the Danube frontier.’ Vallon raised a hand to quell the cheers. ‘My commission takes me much further afield, on an expedition commissioned by His Imperial Majesty. I’m not at liberty to tell you where, only that it will be at least two years before I see my home and family again.’

Not a sound from the Outlanders, all of them straining for the general’s next words.

‘I’m not taking the whole squadron,’ said Vallon. ‘My orders are to select a hundred volunteers. We can whittle the number down by excluding all married men and those over forty. That still leaves almost two hundred of you. I hope I can find enough brave souls from that number to furnish a sufficient force.’

Lucas saw his excitement reflected on his companions’ faces.

‘Those who join me will receive double wages. Those of you fortunate enough to return will be paid the same again. For those who don’t make it back, there will be generous pensions for your families. That tells you something about the dangers we’ll be facing. I want you to dwell on that aspect before you make a decision.’

Excitement rippled through the squadron.

Conrad rode forward a pace. ‘Silence in the ranks!’

The parade ground fell still. At its rooftop nest, a stork clacked its beak with a sound like the roll of a snare drum. Out to sea, ships heeled against the breeze.

‘Front rank first,’ Vallon said. ‘All those who wish to join the expedition, take two steps forward.’

A grizzled Croat thrust up a hand. ‘Permission to speak, General?’

‘Granted.’

‘What happens to the men you’ll leave behind?’

‘They’ll be merged into a new squadron commanded by Centurion Conrad and posted to the Danube border.’

The front rank looked along their line, shook their heads and stepped forward as one.

Vallon rubbed his brow. ‘I said I’m not taking married men.’

‘Permission to speak again,’ said the Croat.

‘If you must. In your case, it won’t make any difference. As I recall, you have at least one wife and four children you acknowledge as your own.’

The Croat glared at his chuckling companions. ‘General, I’d rather risk the unknown than go back to those fever marshes. As for my wife and children, they know a soldier’s fortunes are uncertain. For the last eight years they’ve lived every day with the fear that I won’t be coming home.’

A murmur of agreement ran through the ranks.

‘Silence!’ shouted the three centurions.

Vallon’s gaze raked over the faces. ‘On this expedition, failure to return isn’t a possibility. It’s a probability.’ He paused. ‘I’m flattered that you put so much faith in me, but I don’t demand loyalty for loyalty’s sake. Let me repeat: the expedition will be extremely dangerous. Many of you who ride out with me won’t return. Their bodies will be consumed by wild beasts in lands where no Christian has trod.’ He left another resonant silence. ‘We’ll try the second rank, as before. All those who wish to volunteer, take…’

With impressive timing, the second rank stepped forward.

Vallon conferred with his centurions before addressing the squadron again. ‘Third rank.’

Lucas took two paces forward, face held high, chest straining. No, not every man had volunteered. Lucas glimpsed a gap to his left and realised that Aiken had held back. Vallon noticed it, too, and made the best of an embarrassing situation.

‘Aiken has no need to volunteer. As my son and shield-bearer, his place is at my side.’

Otia the Georgian centurion stuck out his hand. ‘That man there. What are you smirking about?’

Lucas jerked his head back. ‘Nothing, sir.’

Vallon rubbed his forehead again and sighed. ‘I see there’s nothing for it but to choose for myself.’

He went into a huddle with the centurions and several minutes passed before he broke off and faced the squadron. ‘I’d take all of you if I could. No man left behind must take it as a slight on his courage, loyalty and integrity.’

Vallon dismounted and began the long selection process. From where Lucas stood, he saw that the general had words with every man he came to, and warm gestures besides. After he’d passed by, some of the soldiers clutched their fists at their sides and some went grey with the shock of rejection. One man broke into sobs and Lucas saw gritted faces and the sparkle of tears on several others.

Vallon’s progress meant that Lucas was the last to hear his fate. His tense stance made him tremble by the time the general stood in front of him.

‘Trooper Lucas, by all reports you’ll make a fine soldier in time. You handle weapons well and have a natural way with horses. But you’re too young and green for this adventure. It would be a crime to expose you to dangers you’re not ready to meet. Also, your Greek isn’t up to standard.’

Rejection struck Lucas like a kick in the guts. Vallon had turned away before he found his voice.

‘General, you said we might be away two years.’

‘At least.’

Lucas’s voice shook. ‘In that time I’ll have grown to manhood and acquired the necessary military skills. My training goes well and my Greek teacher is pleased with my progress.’

Vallon looked back. ‘I’m sure that when I return, you won’t disappoint me.’

‘General!’

Gorka seized Lucas’s arm. ‘Shut up! Vallon’s heard your plea. He’s turned down many others more deserving.’

Lucas struggled, features contorting. ‘You can’t leave me behind!’

Gorka’s hand dug into his arm. ‘For your own sake, get a grip.’

Vallon turned, his face conveying puzzlement. Everyone within earshot was spectating. Over the sea, gulls wheeled and mewed.

‘You took me into your home,’ Lucas panted. ‘You put me into your squadron with Aiken. To be spear-companions, you said. You can’t separate us now.’

Centurion Josselin jerked his chin. ‘Take him away. Put him on a charge. Failure to obey orders.’

‘Wait,’ Vallon said as Gorka lugged Lucas away. He moved closer and spoke only for the young Frank’s benefit. ‘Yes, I hoped you and Aiken would become companions. Unfortunately, I hear that your attitude towards him is anything but friendly. Spite isn’t a quality I admire.’ He swung on his heel. ‘Dismiss the squadron.’

Lucas made a lunge, but Gorka yanked him back. ‘You’ve said enough,’ he snarled. ‘It’s a flogging for you.’

Blanched and dazed, Lucas knew what he had to do. Vallon, I’m your son, the son of the wife you murdered, brother of your younger son and the daughter I held in my arms before she died two years ago. Sole survivor of a disgraced family reduced to rooting for acorns in the mountains.

He opened his mouth, framing a shout. Father!

‘Let Lucas come,’ Aiken said. ‘Unlike me, he acts as if his life depends on it. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. That doesn’t matter. I’ll be interested in seeing how he deals with the reality of life on campaign.’

Vallon waved away the bystanders. ‘Gorka, you were in charge of Lucas’s training. What do you think?’

Gorka slackened his grip. ‘Well, General, it’s like this. Trooper Lucas has a long way to go before he can call himself a soldier, but I’ve dealt with worse raw material. The thing is, he gets up my nose, and what I hate is the thought of him twiddling his dick in some cushy billet while me and my mates are fighting whoever it is you’re leading us against. So… I agree with trooper Aiken. Let him come and take his chances.’

Lucas had been standing to attention for two hours. Vallon’s face seemed to go into eclipse, the darkness not like the dark of night, but the absolute blackness of a world where no sun ever shone. He had no recollection of Gorka catching him just before he hit the ground.

All leave was cancelled. For the next ten days the expeditionary force laboured from dawn to dark. They spent most of the time in a cordoned-off section of the harbour loading supplies onto the dromons — Stork and Pelican — and the two cargo ships. Vallon and Hero sometimes appeared on the quay to monitor progress, and it was on one of these occasions that Lucas, trundling barrels up Pelican’s gangplank, crossed paths with the Sicilian. He wiped his brow.

‘These barrels weigh as heavy as bullion. What’s in them?’

Hero smiled. ‘Nothing so precious as gold, I’m afraid. It’s a mineral called cobalt, mined in Persia and used by potters to produce a blue glaze on ceramics.’

‘Is it valuable?’

‘I’m not sure. We don’t know what our clients want from us.’

‘Who are they? Where are we going?’

‘Vallon will tell you once we’re at sea. All I can say is that by the time you return, you’ll be grown to man’s estate.’

‘Sir…’

Hero had already turned away.

Lucas delivered his next statement in a flurry. ‘Thank you for buying the horse. I’ll repay you.’

Hero blushed. ‘You weren’t supposed to know.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m grateful — not just for Aster, but for the way you treated my wounds. I crave your pardon for my churlish behaviour on the ship.’

Hero’s expression gentled. ‘Granted without reservation. I know what it’s like to be a stranger in a strange land. I wasn’t much older than you when I fell in with Vallon.’ Seeing Lucas about to pursue the subject, he made his tone brisk. ‘If you want to show your gratitude, bestow it on Aiken. These last few months haven’t been easy for him.’

‘Lucas,’ Gorka shouted. ‘No one gave you leave to chat. Get back to work.’

Lucas lay in bed that night, turning over what Hero had said, torn between the physician’s request and his own resentment. Resentment won, rising like a bitter froth. So Aiken hasn’t had an easy time of it these last few weeks. What about me? I’ve been carrying pain for ten years. Curdled memory dragged him back to the night when Vallon had lurched into the nursery splashed with his wife’s blood, his sword raised to slay his children. Lucas had been six years old, and since then not a day or night had passed when the hideous image didn’t rear up.

‘Aargh!’

He bolted awake to find Gorka’s face leering down, his features grotesque in the light of a candle.

‘No more pleasant dreams, laddie. We’re off to catch a ship and explore the world.’

‘You mean — ’

‘That’s right. By the time the city wakes, we’ll be gone, and every one of us no more than a memory.’