Imperial Fire (5 page)

‘My wife is from Iceland,’ Vallon said. ‘The island breeds a fair race.’

‘You dwell in Galata, I understand. I’ve never been there. Of course, when you return, you must find a home closer to the palace.’ Her hand described a circle. ‘And perhaps a small estate on the Marmara coast.’

Vallon managed a bow before turning to the Logothete. ‘How many men will I command?’

‘One hundred cavalry, chosen from your own squadron, each man selected for his courage, loyalty and versatility in arms. Our ambassador will be accompanied by his personal guards and staff. With grooms, muleteers, surgeons, cooks – about two hundred men in all.’

‘Two hundred is too few to fight a battle, too many to keep supplied on a year’s land march.’

‘I don’t anticipate any serious fighting. I’ve already taken steps to arrange a safe conduct through the Seljuk territories in Armenia and Persia. Once you’ve passed through those lands, you won’t face anybody more fearsome than nomad bandits.’

How do you know?
Vallon wanted to shout.
That’s how you dismissed the Seljuk Turks who defeated the cream of the Byzantine military and captured the emperor only ten years ago.
He breathed deep. ‘My men are mercenaries. I can’t compel them to follow me to China.’

‘You won’t tell them until you’ve taken ship. Until then, you must convince them that they’re bound for another spell on the Bulgarian border. Only when you’re three days’ sail from Constantinople will you reveal your orders. To soften any distress this might cause, you’re authorised to tell your men that they’ll be drawing double wages for the duration of the expedition.’

None of them would see a penny, Vallon thought. All of them would perish in a nameless desert with not even a coin to close their eyes against the sun.

‘I’m sorry, Lord. I won’t lie to my men. They’re a rag-tag bunch drawn from many lands and my greatest pride is that they trust me. I won’t betray that trust. I will take only volunteers who know what hazards they face.’

Outside the walls of the Hippodrome, dogs barked and a bell tolled from a distant church. Gases hissed in the braziers. The third figure – it had to be Alexius – reached out and took the Logothete’s sleeve. The minister leaned and then straightened.

‘Very well. You’ll tell your squadron at the last moment, without informing them of their precise destination. That’s a simple security precaution. You’ll be carrying a great deal of treasure.’

Vallon drew himself up. ‘I’m honoured that you regard me as equal to the task. I humbly submit that you overestimate my talents and I beg to be relieved of it.’

‘Your request is denied, General. You have three months to prepare. During that time, you will meet with the diplomats and learn everything you can about China.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘That would be treason, and the punishment for treason is to be blinded and whipped through the city sitting backwards on an ass.’ The Logothete gave a signal and Chlorus emerged from the tunnel. ‘His Imperial Majesty has promoted Vallon the Frank to a general’s command, and an officer of such high rank shouldn’t be exposed to another choppy ride on the Bosporus. You’ll find a carriage waiting at the Chalke Gate.’

Vallon’s escort set him down outside his villa and rode back to the ferry. He hesitated before pulling the bell, aware that this might be one of the last times he entered his home. To the south the metropolis slept under a glowing bubble. Across the Bosporus only a few isolated lights marked the Asian shore. He wrenched the bell-pull and Wulfstan shepherded him inside, goggling with questions he didn’t dare ask. Caitlin jumped up from the fireside.

‘Was I right? Has the emperor rewarded your valour?’

Vallon sat down and massaged his eyes. ‘In a way. I’ve been promoted to general.’

‘Then why do you look like a man under sentence of death?’

‘I’ve been ordered to lead an expedition to China.’

‘Where’s that?’

Vallon gave a curdled smile, aware that he would hear the same question many times in the months ahead. ‘Already I face a problem. I have strict orders to tell no one about the mission.’

‘Nonsense, Vallon. I’m not one of those Greek gossips. We’ve never let secrets divide us.’

‘I’m merely warning you that you mustn’t repeat anything I tell you.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

Vallon blew out his cheeks. ‘China is an empire on the other side of the world, a year’s journey away, a year back. I’ll be old before I return.
If
I return.’

Caitlin took both his hands. ‘You’re frozen.’ She turned and called. A maid appeared. ‘Hot wine for the master.’ Caitlin led him to a couch, sat him down and knelt before him, kneading his hands. ‘I couldn’t bear such a long separation.’

Vallon shrugged. ‘The only way to avoid the mission would be to flee Byzantium.’

‘Where would we go?’

Another shrug. ‘I could take up the Seljuk Sultan’s offer to join his army.’ Vallon laughed. ‘I encountered the Normans’ second-in-command on the field of battle. He made a similar offer. I could go anywhere they’d employ an ageing mercenary.’

Caitlin looked around the comfortable apartment. ‘It would mean giving up everything and starting afresh in a foreign land. The children would have to learn new languages.’

Vallon sat straight. ‘No. I won’t allow my family to be uprooted. I’ll carry out my orders, even if I might never see my loved ones again. I’m sorry that you will have to make a similar sacrifice.’

The maid returned with the wine. Vallon turned the cup in both hands. Caitlin rose and sat beside him. ‘If anyone can make the journey and return home safe, it’s you.’

Vallon lifted the cup to his lips and knocked it back in one, aware that Caitlin had made only a token stand against what was effectively a death sentence delivered against her husband.

‘How long until you leave?’ she asked.

‘Three months.’

‘Then there’s hope. The emperor might change his mind before then. Every week brings news of fresh alarms on the frontier. They won’t send you on such a far-flung expedition if there’s fighting to be done closer to home.’

Vallon summoned a smile. He squeezed Caitlin’s hand. ‘You’re right.’

Her expression became pensive. ‘If you do go, will you ask Hero to join you?’

Vallon swung round. ‘Of course not. It didn’t even occur to me. As for summoning him… He’s a distinguished physician in Italy. He wouldn’t throw up his career to tag along on some reckless adventure. Heaven forbid.’

Caitlin leaned towards the fire. ‘And Aiken?’

Vallon studied her face in profile, the firelight gilding her skin. He stroked a hand down her cheek. ‘No. The challenge is too severe. The lad will stay here and continue his studies.’

Caitlin closed her eyes in relief and kissed Vallon on the lips. ‘Thank you, husband.’ She rose in one graceful movement and extended her hand. ‘I think it’s time we retired.’

Vallon pressed her hand to his lips. ‘I fear my thoughts are too wrenched about to give you the consideration you deserve.’

Caitlin brushed her hand over Vallon’s head and withdrew.

He watched her glide out of the room, his thoughts dark and rancid. Much later his servant found him staring into the fire, studying the pulsing embers as if they were a prefigurement of his destiny, open to any interpretation.

Hero stood in the bow, a warm breeze from the south blowing his hair about his face. The first swallows of spring skimmed the surface around the ship, and high in the sky storks drifted in lazy gyrations on the way back to their nesting grounds. Ahead, the Sea of Marmara funnelled into the Bosporus, the mile-wide strait flecked with sails, the city of Constantinople beginning to shape itself out of the haze on the western shore. With swelling heart, Hero watched the metropolis draw nearer, its sea walls taking on massive form, mansions and palaces and tenements spilling over the promontory in a great upwelling of civilisation.

He glanced around smiling, wanting to share his pleasure, and his gaze fell on a youth watching the approaching city with a mixture of awe and apprehension. The lad was Frankish, only about sixteen, but tall and well-set with a face that reminded Hero of the young Emperor Augustus – the same jutting, high-bridged nose, curly hair, rather prominent ears and a mouth both truculent and sensitive. He’d caught Hero’s attention soon after boarding the ship at Naples. Partly it was because he was alone and a Frank, a youth trying to project an image stern beyond his years. He was obviously poor, dressed in a patched tunic and crudely repaired shoes. For food all he had was a satchel of what looked like cold porridge that he cut with a knife and forced down with stolid revulsion. Hero had tried to engage him in conversation before and been rebuffed. The youth shunned all company, possibly because he spoke no Greek. Now, seeing the lad’s scarcely disguised nervousness, Hero decided to make another attempt.

‘A wonderful sight, but intimidating on first acquaintance. Imagine. Half a million souls dwell behind those walls.’

The young Frank glanced at him, surprised to be addressed in French, then looked away.

‘This is my second visit,’ said Hero, ‘but the sight still quickens my pulse like no other. I’ll point out the landmarks if you want. The land walls were built by Theodosius more than six hundred years ago. They’re nearly four miles long and no army has ever breached them. Those splendid columns and façades above the sea walls are part of the Great Palace. Beyond is the dome of St Sophia. In a short while you’ll be able to see the whole structure, the most beautiful cathedral in Christendom.’

‘I’m not here to admire the views.’

‘I didn’t imagine you were. I assume you’re travelling to Constantinople to join the military.’

‘Assume what you like.’

St Sophia in all its glory glided into full view. ‘My name is Hero of Syracuse. Some people think it’s a girl’s name.’ He pointed back down the Sea of Marmara. ‘Like the maiden whose lover Leander swam the Hellespont each night to be with his mistress. In fact my father named me after the inventor and mathematician, Hero of Alexandria.’

The youth ignored Hero’s out-held hand. ‘I’ve never heard the name and I’m not interested.’

Hero made one last effort. ‘We still have some time before we reach harbour. This breeze sharpens my appetite. Will you share breakfast with me? Just some bread, figs and cheese. A flask of decent wine.’

The youth rounded on him. ‘Look, I know your type. I’ve had to deal with them since I left Aquitaine.’

‘Aquitaine? That’s interesting. As it happens —’

‘Don’t tell me. You just happen to have a friend from Aquitaine, so why don’t we all get together for a quiet supper. You’re not the first who’s tried that on.’

Hero stepped back. ‘I can see you’re wary of strangers. Do you know anyone in Constantinople? I have a friend in the city who could give you advice on joining the military. In fact I’m here to visit him.’

‘You don’t take no for an answer, do you? I don’t want to share your food. I don’t want to meet your friend.’

Hero coloured. ‘You’re too quick to twist motives. That’s not a trait that will take you far in Constantinople. The city has a reputation for eating strangers.’ The ship was approaching the Golden Horn. ‘I won’t impose on you any further.’ He laid a few coins down. ‘No, don’t throw them back. I know you need them. I bid you goodbye and good fortune.’

Discomfited by the encounter, Hero gathered up his luggage and prepared to disembark. On landing, a customs official noted his name, place of origin and purpose of visit before waving him through onto the teeming quayside. A dozen porters surrounded him, clamouring to know where he wanted to go and offering competing fares even before he’d answered. He let the squall blow out before announcing his destination. ‘I’m travelling to the home of Count Vallon, a Frankish officer in the imperial army.’

One of the porters thrust aside his competitors. ‘I know Vallon. He’s a general now.’ The man pointed across the Golden Horn at a hilly suburb. ‘He lives in Galata, right at the top.’

The porter took Hero’s luggage and hurried towards a ferryboat. At the water’s edge, Hero looked back to see that the passengers had dispersed, leaving the Frankish youth alone on the quay. Their eyes met, then the porter took Hero’s arm and assisted him into the boat. When the two oarsmen were into their stroke, Hero turned a last time to see the young Frank walking towards the city gate, pestered by touts. A laden cart shut him from view, and when it had passed, the Frank was gone, swallowed by the city.

Watching the shore approach, Hero experienced a tingle of pleasurable anticipation. Nine years had passed since he’d last seen Vallon, and though they had exchanged a few letters, he didn’t know what changes time had wrought in his old companion. He was delighted to hear that Vallon was now a general – a promotion long overdue in Hero’s opinion. Vallon’s correspondence shed little light on his military career. His letters, written in laboured Greek, were mainly about his family and the observations he’d made on his travels.

Despite his pleasure at the prospect of meeting his friend again, Hero couldn’t suppress a twinge of resentment. The request – more like a summons – to journey to Constantinople had meant leaving his prosperous medical practice and a comfortable tenure at the University of Salerno. What rankled most was the formality of the letter – not a personal request from Vallon himself, and therefore to be met without hesitation, but a stiff demand from the Logothete tou Dromou stating that Vallon was engaged on important imperial business and had insisted on Hero joining him without delay.

The ferry reached the opposite shore. The porter gestured at the hill. ‘You’ll be wanting a mule.’

‘I’ve been at sea for two weeks. I’d prefer to walk.’ Hero saw the porter’s disappointment. ‘Of course you must hire a mule to carry my bags.’

They entered Galata through a gate and climbed past handsome walled villas with feathery black cypresses and gnarled mulberry trees growing in courtyard gardens.

‘Mind if I ask where you’re from?’ the porter said. ‘You speak Greek like a proper gentleman, but you aren’t from Constantinople. I can tell.’

‘I grew up in Syracuse and now I live in Salerno.’

‘Travelled a fair bit, I’d say. I heard you talking Arabic to one of the porters.’

Hero smiled. ‘A fair bit.’

‘Like where, sir? I enjoy hearing about different places. I’ve met people from all over – Spain, Egypt, Rus. Me, I’ve never been no further than the Black Sea.’

Hero bowed in passing to a respectable couple. ‘Well, I’ve been to the land of the Franks and I’ve visited England.’

‘Lord, that must have been a trial.’

Memory loosened Hero’s tongue. ‘From there I sailed to Iceland and then journeyed south to Anatolia and the court of Emir Suleyman, now the Sultan of Rum. That was nine years ago.’

The porter’s eyes popped. ‘You met that devil Suleyman? Well I never. Forgive me for asking, sir, but if it was that long ago, you must have been awful young.’

‘I was eighteen.’

The porter had to wrench his gaze away. ‘I’d love to hear more, sir, but here we are at General Vallon’s residence.’

Hero faced the door and took a deep breath. The porter jangled the bell. Bolts scraped free. The gate opened and a thickset man with moustaches like wings stepped out. Both of them gaped, then Hero stumbled back.

‘You!’

Wulfstan swept him up in an embrace. ‘Hero, my old friend.’

Hero wrenched loose. ‘You’re no friend. What are you doing here? How did…?’ He broke off in confusion. The last time he’d see Wulfstan had been on the River Dnieper, when the Viking and his companions had deserted Vallon’s company to pursue a Russian slave ship. Shock made Hero pant. ‘You left us to die. You promised to wait for us at the estuary.’

Wulfstan scratched his head and grimaced. ‘I know it must have looked that way. We came back for you, found your campsite, the fire still warm. We missed you by hours.’

‘But how did you find your way into Vallon’s service?’

‘Long story.’ Wulfstan took Hero’s luggage from the open-mouthed porter. Only then did the Sicilian register that the Viking had lost his left hand and his arm ended in a stump. This he threw across Hero’s back before shepherding him into the courtyard. Hero took in his surroundings with dazed approval. The whitewashed villa formed a square C, with a vine-clad loggia running the length of the main dwelling. In the garden, blossoms covered fruit trees in a haze of pink and white.

Wulfstan winked at Hero. ‘I can’t wait to see the general’s face when he claps eyes on you.’ The Viking cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘General Vallon,’ he called. ‘Look who’s here.’

Vallon emerged from the villa, followed by a young man. Vallon stopped stock still and his jaw dropped. ‘Good lord,’ he said. Then he ran down the steps. ‘Hero, my dear Hero. What a delightful surprise.’

He seized Hero’s hands and they stood smiling at each other, taking stock. Age had not been unkind to Vallon. The same lean and upright frame, the nose more aquiline and the face more lined, the auburn hair beginning to grey at the temples.

Vallon steered the youth forward. ‘You’ve heard me speak of Hero many times. Well, here he is, and looking most distinguished. Hero, may I present Aiken, my English son by adoption. His father was a companion in arms.’

Hero shook Aiken’s hand. The youth had a pleasant, intelligent countenance and a quiet and courteous manner. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, sir.’

Vallon laughed. ‘I still can’t believe it. Caitlin will be devastated to have missed you. She and the girls are visiting friends in the country. They’re due back tomorrow.’ He draped an arm over Hero’s shoulder. ‘But what brings you to Constantinople? Why didn’t you write to let us know you were coming?’

‘A letter wouldn’t have reached you in time. I sailed as soon as I received the summons.’

Vallon stopped. ‘Summons? I sent no summons.’

‘From the Logothete tou Dromou, asking me to join you in Constantinople with all haste.’

Vallon’s hand dropped from Hero’s shoulder. His gaze drifted away. He plucked at his mouth. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Vallon took a breath and braced himself. ‘We’ll talk at supper. You must be tired from your journey.’ He turned to Wulfstan. ‘Show Hero to his room.’ Two servants – a middle-aged man and a young girl – had appeared on the veranda. ‘Peter, Anna, attend to our guest’s comfort. He’s travelled all the way from Italy.’

Wulfstan talked non-stop as he led the way to an airy room overlooking the Bosporus. Peter began unpacking Hero’s bags. ‘Wulfstan, my arrival seems to have shocked Vallon.’

‘Shocked us both.’

‘In Vallon’s case, not pleasantly.’

‘What are you talking about? He’s thrilled to see you.’

‘Is anything troubling him?’

‘Far from it. At last he’s got the promotion he deserves. Know why? He saved the emperor’s life at Dyrrachium.’ Wulfstan’s forehead wrinkled. ‘What’s the matter?’

Hero forced a smile. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Meeting old friends after a long absence is always an emotional shock.’

‘It’s no strain for me. I never had nothing but respect for you – the way you used your healing arts on anybody who needed them, even if they were your enemy. If you need anything, just call me. Anything.’

‘Thank you. Right now all I want is rest.’

Wulfstan grinned. ‘What stories we have to tell.’ He raised his hand and stole out of the room like a benign troll. The maid was still making up the bed, plumping the pillows. Peter was arranging Hero’s luggage. A bowl of fruit had appeared on a table by the window and a ewer of water and clean cloths stood on a washstand. Peter bowed. ‘A bath will be ready at your convenience. Is there anything else you require?’

‘No. I’m much obliged.’

Alone at last, Hero went to the window and gazed down on the Bosporus, the sea-lane criss-crossed with barges and caiques and dromons and fishing boats. Over there on the Asian shore, no more than two weeks’ ride to the south-east, Wayland and Syth were going about their lives. What had become of them? Did they still retain their English language and customs, or had they adopted Turkish manners? Fatigue smothered Hero’s speculations. He plopped onto the bed, sat for some time in a slack-jawed trance, then undressed, slipped under the bedclothes and fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

He woke muzzy-headed in the dark. A figure glided in and lit a lamp. Hero sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What time is it?’

‘The church bells have just rung vespers,’ Peter said. ‘The master says you mustn’t stir yourself until you’re fully rested. He was most insistent on that point. If you’re hungry, I can bring supper to your room.’

‘Tell General Vallon that I’d like to join him. Perhaps after a bath.’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of preparing one.’

A mosaic of fanciful sea creatures decorated the bath-house. After a hot soak, Hero took a cold plunge and rose clear-headed to find Peter waiting with freshly laundered clothes. The servant led him into a salon painted with frescoes of pastoral scenes inspired by Ovid’s stories. Vallon rose from the table. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous.’

Over a simple meal of grilled red mullet and spring salad, Vallon explained how he had come to adopt Aiken. ‘I’d be grateful if you spent some time with the boy. I think he’ll find your company more congenial than mine. His teachers say that he has quite a gift for logic and rhetoric.’