Imperial Fire

XV

At the first Ratcha village, Vallon dismissed the remaining Svan porters and ordered Otia to negotiate with the Ratchuelians for replacements. The highlanders remained in their towers, rejecting all inducements, scorning all threats. The one-sided parleying went on until afternoon of the next day before Otia gave up.

‘We have to press on, General. The longer we delay, the more time we give our enemies to lay ambushes.’

‘We can’t go forward without beasts and men to carry our baggage.’

Otia exchanged a glance with Josselin. ‘Sir, the only way we’ll reach the Caspian is by travelling light. Abandon the trebuchet and the fire siphon.’

‘Not before I give these mountain men a taste of my wrath.’ Vallon’s gaze fell on Wulfstan. ‘You know how to operate the trebuchet.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’ve used it to deliver Greek Fire.’

‘I have, sir, with devastating results.’

‘I’m promoting you to captain of ordnance. Assemble the siege engine and drill a crew in its operation.’ He gauged the distance to the settlement and pointed at a patch of ground about three hundred feet in front of it. ‘That’s the spot you’ll be aiming from.’

‘Right away, sir.’

Vallon pointed at a thatched byre lying outside the settlement. ‘And that’s your mark.’ He stalked off. ‘Josselin, give Wulfstan the men he requires.’

Under the apprehensive gazes of the highlanders, Wulfstan supervised the recommissioning of the trebuchet, fitting the arm to an axle running through the frame uprights, attaching a leather sling to the long end of the throwing arm, and weighting the cradle on the short counterpoise end with rocks. Shadows were pleating the snowfields when the Viking reported that the machine was ready.

‘Use water barrels to find the range,’ Vallon said. ‘When you’re sure of hitting the target, destroy it with Greek Fire. Can you do that?’

‘I can.’

Wulfstan sighted on the target and made a few minor adjustments before pulling the release lever. The counterpoise dropped and the throwing arm swung up in a lazy arc, pulling the sling after it. As the sling whipped into the vertical position, the barrel flew out, sailing in a high curve to burst thirty yards behind the target and slightly to the right. Wulfstan removed some rocks, corrected his aim and delivered another shot. Three times the arm swung and threw before a cask of water burst through the byre’s roof. The defenders in the towers vented their nervousness with catcalls and flights of arrows. Only a lemon streak of light remained in the sky.

‘This time with Greek Fire,’ Vallon said.

A gang of troopers stripped to the waist heaved on a windlass to crank the arm down. Wulfstan laid a bed of kindling in the sling, placed a barrel of Greek Fire on top like an infernal egg, poured more of the incendiary over the barrel and ignited the kindling. Smoky flames licked into the dusky sky.

Half-crouching, eyes mad in the hellish glow, Wulfstan bided his time. ‘Not yet. Wait for the fire to bite.’

Vallon watched, wincing as the flames charred the staves. ‘Wulfstan, if you don’t release, it will be us who — ’

‘Now!’ Wulfstan yelled.

Up into the sky the blazing barrel flew, the flames roaring with the speed of its passage and then extinguished by the rush of air. It fell to ground God knows where. Vallon clamped both hands to his cheeks.

The roof of the byre erupted in a gout of flame that went rolling into the night like the hellfire conjured up by preachers to frighten the wicked. After the first burst, the roof burned in a steady conflagration, sparks whirling in vortices fifty feet high.

Vallon waited for the flames to settle. ‘Turn the engine on the village. Light torches so that its defenders have no doubt where the fireball will fall.’

Men heaved and prised the trebuchet around until its arm pointed towards the heart of the village. They began hauling on the windlass. Again, Wulfstan primed the sling with kindling before adding a barrel of Greek Fire. As he raised his burning brand, a voice drifted from one of the towers.

‘Wait,’ Otia said. ‘They’re prepared to consider our demands.’

Vallon turned away. ‘You make the arrangements.’

The Outlanders pitched camp next day below the treeline in a shepherd’s summer camp occupied by a log cabin and four primitive dwellings that looked like flattened stone beehives roofed with sods. The shepherds had made a corral from tree trunks and into this the muleteers drove the pack animals and stowed the baggage.

It was a lovely spot — a long wildflower meadow divided by a burbling stream. Down one side of the valley a waterfall cascaded in a lazy plume, spray drifting in veils across the dark haze of pine forest. On the other side the walls shot up to dizzying scree slopes and beetling crags overlooked by peaks with wisps of snow curling off them.

With an hour of daylight left after he’d finished his duties, Lucas wandered upstream. It looked trouty. At the first pool he came to a fish dived into the milky green depths. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he stalked up the next pool, searching for likely lies. A smooth boulder projected into an eddy below a rapid. He slid belly first across the rock and peered over. Two feet beneath him, only its head showing, a trout hung on fanning fins.

Lucas dipped his right hand into the water behind the fish. Hand cupped, fingers upheld, he brought it forward until he contacted the trout’s tail. Tickling with his fingers, he worked along the fish’s belly until he reached its gills. A gasp, a grasp and a scoop and he wrenched the fish from its element, juggling to keep hold of it. He clapped it in both hands and gave a whoop of triumph. He examined his catch — only about eight inches long with a moss-green back speckled with coral pink spots. A beauty.

He despatched it and made his way to the next pool. This one was more tricky to work and he had to wade, feeling under every likely rock or fallen tree. He lost the next trout but added another two to his bag, and by the time the light was almost gone he’d caught six fish weighing in total something over two pounds.

‘You’re not a bad guddler,’ a voice said behind him.

It was Wayland and his dog, accompanied by Atam and Aiken.

Lucas sploshed to the bank. ‘I’ve been tickling trout since I was five. The technique’s easy. What counts is knowing where the fish are hiding.’

Wayland nodded. ‘I used to guddle when I was a boy. One September I lived on nothing but trout, wild raspberries and chanterelles. A king never dined better.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll never forget the time I thought I’d teased a trout and pulled out a water rat. I don’t know who was more shocked.’

Lucas laughed, too, delighted to be speaking to Wayland on equal terms. ‘Hero told me that you grew up alone in the wilderness. One day I’d like to hear about your experiences.’

‘There’s not much to tell. I found the summers easy and the winters hard. I wouldn’t choose to return to that way of life.’

‘How do you catch them?’ Aiken asked. ‘What’s the trick?’

Lucas ignored him. He gestured at the peaks. ‘These mountains remind me of the Pyrenees.’ He pointed at a lammergeir quartering a slope in the last light. ‘I’ve seen them drop tortoises onto rocks to break their shells and get at the meat.’

Wayland glanced at the vulture. ‘I doubt you have leopards at home.’

‘You saw a leopard?’

‘About a mile back.’

Lucas whistled. ‘I wish I’d been there. A leopard.’ On impulse he hefted his string of trout. ‘I have too many for my own supper and they’re best eaten with the taste of the river still on them.’

Wayland inclined his head. ‘Thank you. Share them with your mess-mates.’

Lucas scowled in the direction of the camp. ‘I’ve been separated from my mates, haven’t I? Trout would be wasted on the muleteers. Your dog would appreciate them more than those brutes.’ He pushed four of the fish at Wayland. ‘Go on, take them.’

‘Thank you. I promise the dog will get only the scraps.’ Wayland glanced at the sky. ‘You’d better get out of those wet breeches. A cold night is coming and I wouldn’t be surprised if we see snow before dawn.’

Watching him leave, one hand placed on Atam’s shoulder, the other on Aiken’s, the dog waving its tail like a flag, Lucas felt at first admiration and then desolation. He should be walking beside Wayland, not Aiken.

He stiffened when Aiken headed back, the youth’s face set in painful resolve. Lucas breathed in through his nose and braced to meet him.

‘What do you want?’

Aiken spoke with his head down. ‘I’m sorry my outburst led to your punishment. I spoke out of fear and excitement. Watching you fight on the causeway, I was sure you’d be killed.’

Lucas scuffed one sodden foot against a rock. ‘Yes, well, easy to say now.’

‘I asked the general to restore you to your squad. He refused on grounds of discipline, but he holds no grudge against you. On the contrary, he says you have the makings of an excellent swordsman. Even Gorka said that he was just about getting used to you when the general demoted you. He used very impolite language, but he’s clearly fond of you.’

Both of them raised their heads and for a moment they were looking into each other’s eyes. In that instant Lucas could have cast aside his enmity. He knew the Englishman wasn’t the agent of his misfortunes and it was Aiken, not he, who’d lost a father. But out of Lucas’s churning emotions, it was the troll squatting at his core that made itself heard. ‘I don’t need your sympathy. Another week and I’ll be back with my squad — a proper soldier — while you’ll still be skulking in the rear.’

Aiken’s features pinched. ‘I don’t understand your hostility. It’s as if you hated me from before we met.’ He gulped. ‘So be it. I won’t offer another olive branch.’ He hurried away.

Lucas slumped on the riverbank and watched the stream glide past in the dusk. You could end it now, he told himself. Simply march into Vallon’s tent and tell him who you are. His entire being cringed at the prospect. He could imagine the look of horror on Vallon’s face. The general had a new wife and two daughters. So far as he was concerned, his son was dead, and that’s the way he wanted things to stay.

‘Are you still out there?’ Wayland cried. ‘The fish are asleep on the riverbed and it’s time for supper. Remember, leopards stalk these mountains.’

It was nearly dark, campfires branded on the ground and the bustle of the squadron subsiding to the appreciative murmur of men about to fill their stomachs.

‘Coming,’ Lucas cried, and swaggered into camp, showing off his catch to everyone he passed.

Livestock and baggage were housed in the centre of the camp, surrounded by the beehive-shaped koshes. Lucas was billeted in one of these huts and didn’t consider it a privileged berth. Its roof was only four feet from the ground, coated with tar quarter of an inch thick. Lice plagued him and he could hardly sleep for the mice — or were they rats? — scurrying over him in the dark. It was almost a relief when sometime in the small hours Gorka’s voice cut into his wakeful sleep.

‘Lucas, your watch. Get your arse out there.’

He rose scratching and yawning and pulled his cape over his shoulders. Demotion to the supply train didn’t mean he’d been let off sentry duty.

Crawling out into darkness, he blinked at the gossamer touch of snow on his eyelashes. Gorka tugged his arm. ‘This way.’

Lucas blundered behind, the only lights in the blackout a few beds of ashes sizzling in the snow and a pitch lamp burning outside the command tent.

The camp formed a square with one side protected by the river. At the upstream corner the trail crossed a log bridge. Here Gorka tugged down on Lucas’s arm, fixing him to the spot. ‘Arides?’ he called.

A muffled voice answered from somewhere to the right. Gorka leaned in that direction. ‘I hope you weren’t asleep.’

‘No, boss, just frozen.’

Gorka gripped Lucas’s arm. ‘Before your watch is over, I’m going to check that you’re alert. If I can sneak up on you unawares, you’ll find yourself in a world of pain.’

Lucas’s teeth chattered. ‘Better be careful, boss. If I hear you coming, I might think you’re the enemy and take a swipe at you.’

Gorka’s rank breath fanned Lucas’s face. ‘Don’t get smart with me, you useless piece of Frankish piss. It’s because you can’t control that flapping tongue that you’re with those sheep-shaggers in the baggage train.’

‘Only for another week, boss.’

‘Do you know, Lucas — every night before I go to sleep, I fall to my knees and give thanks to our eternal Father that it’s one day less until I’m reunited with that noble trooper, fucking Lucas of fucking Osse, the Frankish fuckwit who’s fucked up so many fucking times I’ve lost fucking count.’

‘Glad to hear you’re missing me.’

With a rumbling growl, Gorka was gone. Lucas hunched his shoulders against the cold, wishing he had the money to buy warmer garments than the hand-me-downs he’d been given. He blinked into the snow flurries. Flakes found their way down his neck. The river hissing and spitting under the bridge would have drowned the sounds of an approaching war host. The watch was pointless. Nobody would attack the camp on a night as dark and drear as this.

‘Hey,’ Arides called. ‘You’re Lucas, ain’t you — the trooper Vallon put in the baggage train?’

‘Can’t really blame him after thumping his son.’

Muted laughter. ‘Ain’t this hell? I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking perishing.’

‘Won’t be long before light.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing. If I’d known I’d be freezing my balls off in these mountains, I wouldn’t have been so quick to step forward when the general asked for volunteers. I’m beginning to think I’d be better off back on the Danube. What say you?’

Some perverse sense of loyalty asserted itself. ‘Cold doesn’t bother me. I’ve spent many a winter night guarding sheep and horses against bears and wolves.’

‘I’ve got a skin of wine. Step over and warm your stomach.’

The prospect was tempting. ‘Thanks, but if Gorka finds me away from my post, he’ll murder me.’

Arides spat. ‘He’s all piss and wind. I saw him run like a frightened girl at a skirmish in Bulgaria.’

Lucas bristled. Gorka might be the bane of his existence, but he was a member of Lucas’s squad, and that counted for a lot. ‘Oh, yes? That’s not how I heard it. Aimery told me that Gorka rode at Vallon’s side when the general saved the emperor at Dyrrachium.’

‘You’re young and green, lad. Don’t be taken in by campfire tales.’ A long glugging sound and a sniff. ‘Damn good wine. Tell you what. If you’re too frit to leave your post, I’ll bring the wine to you. Where are you — on the bridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be right over.’

‘No, really. I’m on duty.’

‘To hell with you, then.’

Lucas’s face and feet grew numb. He nestled his hands in his armpits and jogged up and down. He blew like a horse through fluttering lips. Time dragged like a millstone.

He whirled, alerted by a sound. Hard to tell where it came from. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Arides?’ he whispered.

No answer. Another faint noise sent his heart into spasm. It sounded like horse harness. He drew his sword, searched behind him and gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m wise to you, boss. You’ll have to tread more lightly if you want to catch me dozing.’

No answer and no more movement. Lucas strained through the dark. ‘Gorka?’

A crow called, heralding the approach of dawn. Lucas peered to his right. ‘Arides? I heard a sound.’ He raised his voice. ‘Arides? Where are you?’

‘Right here,’ Arides whispered, grabbing his arm.

Lucas was so keyed up that he skipped back at Arides’ touch, wrenching free. In the next instant something went swish and cold flame seared his forearm. ‘God,’ he said in disbelief, staggering backwards and tripping on the bridge’s logs. That slip saved his life. Another hiss cut a savage semicircle inches above his head and he knew it was a sword blade but couldn’t believe Arides was wielding it or imagine why. He scrambled backwards onto the far bank, still too choked with shock to cry out.

Arides cursed and followed him, feeling his way across the span, his sword slashing right and left. Gripping his injured arm, Lucas stumbled downriver.

‘Arides?’ another voice hissed. ‘Have you dealt with him?’

‘I don’t know. I cut him but he got away.’

‘Find him, you useless idiot.’

‘You find him. I can’t see a thing.’

‘Forget him, then. Mount up before he raises the alarm.’

‘No, we’ve blown our chance.’

‘We can’t go back now. Come on!’

Muffled hooves trembled the bridge and rancorous voices faded away upstream.

‘Enemy attack,’ Lucas gurgled. He massaged his throat, recrossed the bridge and stumbled towards the beacon at the centre of the camp. ‘To arms!’ he shouted. ‘Enemy attack!’

Voices took up the alarm and pandemonium ensued, cries and counter-cries merging with the sounds of men drawing weapons and running blind through the snow.

‘Over here!’ Lucas shouted.

Spectral figures erupted out of the dawn. One of them raised his sword and would have slashed at Lucas if he hadn’t called out his name. Troopers milled, searching for the enemy. A riderless horse galloped past.

Vallon’s voice cut through the mayhem. ‘Everyone stay where they are!’

Movement ceased. A weird silence fell. Lucas touched his right forearm and felt warm blood welling.

Torches had been lit. ‘What’s the cause of this panic?’ Vallon demanded. ‘Who raised the alarm?’

Lucas felt sick and his wounded arm ached to the bone. ‘Me,’ he croaked. ‘Lucas.’

‘Ah, Christ,’ Gorka groaned. ‘I might have known it.’

A clump of torches drew close and Vallon appeared, his face ruddy in the flames.

‘Who attacked us? Who cut you?’

‘Arides, sir. He tried to kill me.’ Lucas held up his wounded arm, the blood black and glossy on his sleeve.

‘Are you out of your mind? Why would Arides try to kill you?’

Lucas’s voice broke. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

Josselin twisted in his stirrups and fanned snow from his eyes. ‘Arides?’ he shouted. ‘Arides?’

The only sound was the sputtering of the torches. Vallon bent over Lucas like a claw. ‘If you’ve murdered Arides in some squabble, you’ll hang.’

‘On my oath, sir,’ Lucas said, close to tears.

‘Hold,’ Josselin said. ‘Someone’s approaching.’

Silent as shadows, Wayland and his dog ran back into the torchlight. ‘No trails approaching the camp. Three horses heading north. We weren’t attacked. The enemy was from within.’

Vallon sat rigid, his face writhing. ‘Deserters.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Send a squad after them. Ten solidi for each traitor. Bring one back alive.’

Josselin wrenched his horse round and disappeared. Hero stepped forward, took Lucas’s arm and examined the wound. ‘Can you move your hand?’

Lucas flexed it.

‘Good. No sinews severed. It requires attention, though.’

Supported by Gorka and Wayland, Lucas followed Hero into his tent. He dropped onto a pallet while Hero prepared his instruments. He swabbed the wound with a resinous ointment whose volatile vapours caught in the back of Lucas’s throat. ‘That will help clean the wound and dull the pain while I stitch. Are you ready?’

Lucas stretched out his right arm and gripped the edge of a camp table. Gorka pinned his wrist. ‘Typical. Your first wound and it’s inflicted by your own side.’ He made a bob to Hero. ‘Stitch away, Master.’

Hero was spoon-feeding Lucas broth when Wayland entered the tent. He acknowledged Hero before turning his gaze on Lucas. ‘Are you able to ride?’

Hero rose. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

‘I’m afraid not. Scouts report trouble ahead. Vallon wants us over the next pass before sunset.’

‘I can ride,’ Lucas said, swinging upright. Immediately his surroundings spun into a kaleidoscope and he would have collapsed if Wayland hadn’t caught him. Lucas stretched his eyes wide and blinked until his surroundings came back into focus. ‘I’m all right,’ he said, his voice reaching him from far away.

Wayland patted his shoulder. ‘You’ve got pluck. I’ll give you that.’

‘What happened?’ Lucas asked.

Wayland paused. ‘Arides and two other Outlanders deserted. They’re riding back in the hope of finding their way to the coast. Vallon’s sent a squad after them. They won’t escape. Even if they outpace their hunters, last night’s snow will have closed the pass. And if they manage to cross it, the Svans will be waiting for them.’

A flick of the tent flap and Wayland was gone. Lucas fixed his woozy gaze on Hero. ‘They’re mad if they think they can get back to the Black Sea.’

‘Hush,’ Hero said. ‘You’ll need all your strength for tomorrow’s journey.’

Long after darkness had fallen, Lucas woke in Hero’s tent to hear orders being cried and feet shuffling to attention. Then silence fell. Hero went to the entrance, looked out and returned with a forced smile.

‘Nothing that need trouble you,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Lucas heard a voice intoning what sounded like a solemn mass. It was Vallon, his words too indistinct to make out. Lucas threw off his blankets and swung his legs to the floor. Hero tried to push him back.

‘Don’t go out there. I mean it.’

‘The scouts have caught the deserters, haven’t they?’

Hero closed his eyes briefly. ‘Yes. They killed all but Arides. They brought him back for summary trial and execution. Stay here. There are some sights a young man shouldn’t witness. In a tender mind foul weeds take root.’

Lucas shoved past. ‘I’ve witnessed crueller sights than the hanging of the bastard who tried to kill me.’

He emerged blinking against leaping flames that silhouetted a gibbet. Beneath the gallows, Arides sat astride a horse, hands bound behind his back and a noose around his neck. He grinned at the assembled company. ‘Well, comrades, we’ve ridden a long way together and now my journey is done. We’re all heading down the same road. The only difference is that when you reach the end, I’ll be there waiting for you. If there’s wine in hell, the first round’s on me.’

Someone gave a caustic laugh. ‘That will be a first.’

At an order from Josselin, two troopers lashed the horse’s rump. It plunged forward and Arides dropped from its back and swung in convulsions, feet kicking only inches from the ground. The squadron waited in silence until his body stopped twitching and dangled, rotating first one way, then the other.

‘See that,’ Vallon said. ‘Now that Arides has left us, he doesn’t know which way to turn. Let that be a lesson to you all. The only way we’ll crown our journey with success is the same way we began it — as a company loyal to each other and to your commander. The way back is more dangerous than the way forward, and grows more so with each passing day. We’re on a bridge that’s collapsing behind us. Our only hope is to advance faster than it crumbles. Dismiss.’

Lucas returned to the tent to find Hero writing in a fierce flurry.

‘Satisfied?’ the Sicilian said, without looking up.

‘He got what he deserved.’

Hero dug the point of his pen into the parchment. ‘Arides had a wife and three children. All the deserters had families. They acted out of desperation. They were convinced that Vallon was leading them to certain death.’

Lucas hadn’t given much thought to the mission. Its scale was so large that he could only absorb it one day at a time. And his obsession with Vallon’s crimes meant he’d given little thought to where they were going or what purpose the journey was supposed to serve. He felt a bit stupid.

‘Is he?’

Hero resumed writing. ‘Possibly. Probably. I’ve studied the accounts without finding any record of a party reaching China from Byzantium.’

‘But you and Vallon and Wayland made an impossible voyage to the ends of the earth.’

Hero laid down his pen. ‘I was your age when I travelled to the northlands, and though I saw friends die on that journey, I was too callow to believe death would lay its grip on me. Since then I’ve learned that death is indiscriminate, taking the young as well as the old, innocents as often as the guilty.’

Lucas stroked the soft stubble on his jaw. ‘I know how cruel life can be.’

Hero sifted sand over his page. ‘Which is why I prefer to explore it through books. Unlike our own utterances, the written word doesn’t die.’

‘What are you writing?’

‘A journal. A record of our journey.’

‘In case none of us survive.’

‘I told you that watching the hanging would plant morbid thoughts. Rest now. Tomorrow you’ll rejoin your squad. Report to me morning and evening so that I can check your wound. It’s healing well.’

Lucas allowed Hero to help him to his pallet. He managed a weak smile as the Sicilian drew the covers up. ‘That’s the second time you’ve saved my life.’

Hero laughed. ‘You exaggerate. You’re as tough as the cats that prowled the Syracuse docks where I grew up.’ He prodded Lucas’s chest. ‘Still, you’ve used at least three of your lives since we met, so you’d better take more care.’