Soldier of Crusade Page 7

  More than seven Roman mille passum in length, they ran from the southern arm of the so-called Golden Horn to circle round the northern edge, there to join the sea wall which enclosed the entire city. A great chain barred access to the Bosphorus, which would have to be overcome before that flank could be threatened. To overcome what he could see was not enough, for behind that obstacle stood three more sets of fortifications all kept in decent repair, the last, the Servian Wall, protecting the very core of ancient Constantinople: the Great Palace, the Hippodrome and the greatest church in all Christendom, the mighty Basilica of Santa Sophia.

  Men had been on duty to warn of Bohemund’s approach and a strong party, led by Manuel Boutoumites, set out from one of the city gates to intercept him. The identity of the new arrival, given his physical features, could not be in doubt, yet, just as legend did not do justice to the walls of the city, what Boutoumites had heard did not do justice to the Count of Taranto and this in a city not short on freakish giants. It was hard not to be astounded, even more difficult to not let it show.

  Boutoumites called out his title once they had come within talking distance, following that with his own name and title of Curopalates, which got him a nod but little else.

  ‘Should I be flattered?’ Bohemund asked finally, which got a quizzical response. ‘I have been told of you, Boutoumites, and I know how high you stand in his counsel. You are spoken of to me as his right hand by those who write to me of such matters.’

  The Byzantine replied unsmilingly, far from pleased that the Apulian general was so knowledgeable about the intricacies of the imperial court, even more so that he made no secret of it.

  ‘It has been my duty to greet every noble Crusader on their approach to the city, so no, to feel flattered would not be appropriate.’

  Bohemund produced a wry smile. ‘Truly, Alexius asks much of those he holds dear, to be no more than a doorkeeper.’

  ‘He has the right to ask what he wishes of any one—’

  The interruption was swift. ‘A notion to be put to the test, would you not say?’

  ‘I was about to add, of his subjects.’

  ‘Which I am not.’

  ‘When can we expect your army?’

  ‘They will come on from Heboomon when I call them. I thought it best to discuss the future with Alexius beforehand.’

  ‘You make it sound as if the future is in doubt.’

  ‘You tell me, counsellor and right-hand man, is it so?’

  ‘If I knew the answer to such a question it would not be my place to provide it.’

  ‘So is it time to find out and lead me to where I will be accommodated?’

  ‘If you look behind me, Count Bohemund, you will see a line of carts approaching. They bear tents sufficient to house you and your escort.’ The calm expression, which Bohemund had worn since the first greeting, changed to one of obvious irritation, which delighted Boutoumites, much as he tried to disguise it. ‘It has been imperial policy not to allow those coming to our aid to reside within the city walls, for fear that, through misunderstandings, they might incite trouble with our citizens.’

  The look around the landscape was slow and deliberate for it begged the question that, if there no armies encamped there, where were they?

  ‘Duke Godfrey de Bouillon and the Count of Vermandois have led their forces across to the north shore of the Gulf of Nicomedia, but you will know this, surely, given you seem to know so much about what we say and do.’

  ‘And your army, Boutoumites, where are they?’

  ‘Inside the walls, where their duty requires them.’ He might have just as well said to keep you and your kind out, but diplomacy left that unspoken. ‘His Highness the Emperor desires to speak with you, but he has many other matters to occupy him. Once they have been attended to I will come for you and take you to him. In the meantime you will find that those approaching carts have upon them fodder for your mounts, food and wine for you, as well as cooks and servants to both prepare and serve it. His Highness wishes you and your knights to feel welcome.’

  ‘And how long must I wait upon “His Highness”?’

  The Byzantine General could not fail to note the way Bohemund emphasised that honorific, which was close to an insult, and the change in his facial expression left Bohemund in no doubt he wished to say ‘as long as he damn well pleases’. When his did speak his voice was tight.

  ‘It will be no more than my master deems to be necessary. Until then you and your men may enter the city in numbers of no more than six at a time and without weapons, to pray if you so desire as well as to marvel at the sights the imperial capital can offer. I will send a messenger out in the morning to enquire if there is anything you need.’

  ‘Like the courtesy of being treated as an equal?’

  Boutoumites enjoyed responding to that. ‘No one is equal to a Roman Emperor!’

  It was three days before the summons came, time in which Bohemund examined the outer walls of the city in some detail, an act which did not go unobserved by those defending them, and such was his reputation it made them nervous, so much so that he acquired a distant escort of mounted lances. He also visited within the city and marvelled at the Hippodrome, while trying to imagine it in use, packed with a hundred thousand screaming and gambling Greeks, with teams of four-horse chariots racing round seeking to either overtake or tip into the dust their opponents.

  Constantinople was full of magnificent churches, abbeys and monasteries, seemingly one on every corner, but none compared to the Great Church of Santa Sophia, where he went to pray beneath the great vaulted dome, a wonder of construction that seemed to defy physical reason. If he had been escorted when outside the walls he was near to hounded within, followed by a crowd of the curious, some even so taken with his person as to wish to touch him, as if doing so would ward off the danger he was known to represent or establish if he was, as they had been told, the offspring of the Devil.

  This carried on as he inspected the three sets of inner walls, less formidable but still objects it would be hard to overcome, while a ride around the sea wall convinced him that the city could not be taken without the besieger had a large fleet to impede supply and the means to get beyond that great Bosphorus chain. Those of higher ranks than this horde of peasants who watched him on his progress – and he suspected one was Boutoumites – thought the city impregnable, but there was no such thing as far as the Count of Taranto was concerned.

  Back outside the gates he looked at the outer walls again, knowing Constantinople would be a hard object to overcome, possibly the hardest he had ever seen, yet he could not help but wonder what his father would have made of such defences. He had been told Bari and Palermo could not be taken, yet he had captured both and if the Guiscard had never seen the fortifications of Constantinople he had dreamt of them often. These thoughts got him back to his camp, where he found Tancred waiting for him, keen to report that his army was well situated and anxious to know what was happening.

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘What is Alexius playing at?’

  ‘Being an emperor, nephew, making sure that I know who has power and who does not.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Not much longer, for if I am not summoned he knows that I may well ride away, to tell all of our confrères of the insult he had heaped upon me. But let us set that aside and eat together, for I have walked many a league this day and my stomach rumbles.’

  ‘Is the city as magnificent as they say?’

  ‘More, Tancred, it is staggering to think how many people live within its walls and the sights are wonders. Rest here tonight and perhaps, if Alexius still plays the despot, we may go tomorrow and you shall see for yourself.’

  ‘Riders approaching, My Lord.’

  Leaving the table and Tancred, Bohemund went to the entrance to his sumptuous and spacious tent and observed the sun was setting behind the single fellow approaching, sending long shadows across the flat plain on which the city st
ood, while picking out the spires and domes that sat atop its hills. It also burnished the armour of an unescorted Manuel Boutoumites, which could only have one meaning. Having been relaxing over wine and conversation with his nephew, Bohemund had one of his men keep the Greek occupied until he was clad in his Crusader surplice, while his horse was saddled and brought to the entrance, Tancred being told to keep out of sight, an instruction which mystified him.

  When the Count of Taranto emerged it was to find the Curopalates surprised at his presumption. Bohemund could have said that him coming on his own, and not sending the usual messenger, only left him to draw one conclusion: he was being summoned. But that would have provided no amusement.

  ‘I have been expecting you, Boutoumites. As you see I was dressed and waiting. Now let us not do that to your Emperor. It is desired, is it not, that we meet at the Blachernae Palace?’

  The last was a guess, if not a wild one, but the implication was again obvious: I have spies within your court and I know everything I need to before you deign to inform me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The outer wall of Constantinople was so extensive it seemed to take the entire contents of a glass of sand to ride to the point of entry, which meant darkest night had come by the time Manuel Boutoumites and his charge arrived outside the Blachernae Gate, a pair of great doors studded with iron bolts and some silver-topped to denote the imperial device. This was flanked by two massive crenellated towers, the whole area illuminated by the same array of lit torches that lined the city parapet all the way to the southern stretch of water known as the Propontis.

  Unlike the many previous gates they had passed, closed for the night, these were wide open, yet it was testament to the nervousness of the garrison that a strong body of archers stood guard, so fearful were they of the reputation of the man coming to visit their ruler. Looking backwards at that line of flickering and diminishing points, which, due to the arc of the walls, disappeared halfway, brought home to Bohemund, more than daylight had done, just how immense was the Byzantine capital and what kind of force would be required to invest it.

  To overcome the outer defences was only the first part of the battle, as his observations on his tour of the inner city had underlined. Even with a whole crusading army and adding a powerful fleet, which they did not have, it would be more like the fabled siege of Troy than anything he had experienced previously in his years of fighting, a decade in duration and likely requiring some kind of ruse to bring about success.

  Such conclusions had played upon his thinking over the time of waiting and they were still present now as they approached the entrance to the Blachernae Palace, a residence that had become the favoured accommodation for Alexius Comnenus. He rarely entered the Great Palace at the heart of the city, Bohemund suspected because too many of his predecessors had been murdered there. The second reason for the shift to the Blachernae was comfort: it occupied a hill to the very north of the city in an area well away from the crowded stink of the old urban heart and the elevation gave the occupant good views in all directions, it also being high enough to benefit from any available and cooling breeze.

  There was a third compelling purpose to such a place of residence: Constantinople was a city much given to riot, at times when food was short and prices rose to levels the lowest could not afford, at others when some event set the population at loggerheads with whoever wore the imperial crown – excessive taxation, some perceived insult to the Orthodox religion, to which the populace was much attached – or just a long-lasting heatwave in an overcrowded city. Being at the north-eastern tip of the city a threatened emperor could make a quick and easy escape till things settled down.

  Again it was only torchlit illumination that gave a clue to the massive dimensions and gilded magnificence of what was now the administrative centre of the empire. Diminished that polity might be, but the palace reeked of a wealth almost impossible to quantify, while within the walls were the men, and they were numbered in the several hundreds, who carried out the business of government, most of them eunuchs.

  Thinking on such a body, Bohemund could not but help reflect on their reputation for intrigue, jealousies and in-fighting; to him such leanings seemed to seep from the shadows thrown onto the walls by torchlight. Every time an emperor fell, there was always some powerful eunuch at the centre of the conspiracy to topple him.

  The Varangian Guard lined the corridors through which he and Boutoumites passed, each with breastplate, helmet and axe; they were trusted to be armed in the imperial presence yet it was also true, and had been since the days of Ancient Rome, that any Praetorian Guard were the first to be seduced, which made them as much a threat as a safeguard. If these men sought to appear indifferent, every eye flicked a little in Bohemund’s direction, for passing them was not just a fellow warrior and one who well overbore them in height, but also a near legendary one; if some looks carried a glare of hate it would be from an Anglo-Saxon.

  Finally they entered the same large chamber, which unbeknown to Bohemund had so recently witnessed the deference of Godfrey de Bouillon and his captains. There were no courtiers present now, just the guards and, sat on his dais, the Emperor Alexius dressed not in purple, but in what looked like workaday garments, a smock edged with embroidery of an almost archaic Greek design, albeit made of very fine linen. When he got up to greet Bohemund, the thought arose in the mind of his visitor that it might be because only by standing on his elevated platform could he look him in the eye.

  A short period of silence ensued as two men who had only ever seen each other on a battlefield and at a distance carried out a mutual examination. Alexius was of medium height and had the chest and shoulders of a fighting man while his legs, where they were visible, showed strong and muscular support for that upper body. His skin was olive-coloured yet pale and spoke of an indoor life, made to look more luminous by the many oil lamps, the nose prominent and slightly hooked, the lips full and sensuous, while the gaze from his dark-brown eyes was steady and unblinking. The voice, when he spoke, was deep and composed, strong enough to create an echo in what was a near empty and high-ceilinged chamber.

  ‘Count Bohemund.’

  That got a slight dip of the Norman head. ‘Face-to-face, Alexius.’

  ‘Highness!’ whispered an irritated Manuel Boutoumites. ‘Show respect.’

  That got a low chuckle. ‘I have shown enough respect by the time of waiting, then coming when summoned.’

  ‘A proud Norman, then,’ Alexius said, with a ghost of a smile. ‘Not much given to bending the knee?’

  ‘I do so when I am seated.’

  That brought a full smile to the lips of the Emperor and a sharp intake of breath from Manuel Boutoumites, for it was a clear demand for a chair; few were the people allowed to sit in the imperial presence outside the immediate family, and even they required permission. It was plain from the ensuing pause that Alexius knew he was being challenged, that Bohemund was demanding to be treated as an equal not a subject. It was also obvious he was thinking through the ramifications of either agreeing or a refusal.

  ‘Let’s you and I retire,’ he said finally, looking around the large chamber, ‘to somewhere more informal.’

  ‘To where we can speak in private.’

  ‘You may wish to say things others will not take kindly to hear.’

  ‘Highness?’ Manuel Boutoumites asked, who realised that he was not to be included.

  ‘Please wait here, Curopalates, to escort Count Bohemund back to his camp.’ The hesitation of his advisor was palpable and the reason obvious. ‘Do not fear for my person, the Count is unarmed, and if he seeks to use those great hams of his to break my neck, one of my guards will chop them off.’

  There was a moment, when Alexius descended from his dais to ground level, when he registered his comparative height and it was not one that spoke of ease. Accustomed to respect for his title this was a not a man to be easily overawed; imperial splendour – and the Blachernae Palace, even near empty, ha
d that in abundance – would not impress this particular Norman, with his steady gaze and a body stillness that spoke of a high degree of self-control. For a second Alexius felt discomfort, before abruptly spinning round to walk away, his mind full of thoughts over which he had mulled many times.

  Of all the Frankish knights supposedly coming to the aid of Byzantium – and many of them were a mystery in terms of their personal aspirations – Bohemund was likely to be the most dangerous and the most difficult to control, for he had no respect for an empire which he and his family had fought both for and against. Nor could he easily believe in Bohemund’s piety; if faith had brought the likes of Godfrey de Bouillon to his city and might be bringing on those who followed, Alexius could not believe that such a cause had prompted this man to take part.

  His ambitions in Southern Italy were far from secret, nor was the frustration he felt at the need to acknowledge his half-brother as both Duke of Apulia and his suzerain, or that this was a compromise forced upon him by his Uncle Roger, who, instead of supporting his right to the lands he had conquered, would have taken the field against him had he refused to settle for what he occupied. Set against that, also to be proved when all were present, he was probably the most accomplished leader in battle, a fact to which Alexius could personally attest.

  In the latter stages of his father’s invasion of Romania, with the Guiscard obliged to take the bulk of his lances back to crush rebellion in Apulia, Bohemund had been massively outnumbered at every turn, and if he had lost a battle or two, many more times he had inflicted defeat upon the armies Alexius had led by the employment of superior tactics, the sheer physical force of his Norman lances or by some act of individual courage that had rallied his men to mount what would appear to be a futile assault.