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  En Jaime fell silent. He held his goblet up to the light, twirled it, and dashed it against the wall. Glass tinkled to the floor; a red wine stain spattered the mosaic.

  “They murdered our lord,” said the Catalan thickly. “God will punish them. I say to you, we are the scourge of God upon this brood of snakes I”

  Asberto growled an obscene agreement. Na Violante’s cheeks flamed. Lucas sat very still.

  “Have you heard the tale?” said En Jaime after a while. “Before departing to war, our commander, the Caesar, went to Adrianople to pay his respects to Skyr Miqueli. And there he was murdered. George, the chief of the Alans, whose son had been killed in the riots at Cyzicus--George wielded the knife. Oh, but the Alans shall mourn for that day! And the Greeks! Three hundred good Catalans who had been with En Roger were butchered in the streets. Only three men escaped to bring us the news. By then, the Alans were already at our throats. They slew all of us they could find dwelling in Thrace, and camped before Gallipoli to besiege us.

  “So we sent a deputation to Andronicus, under safe conduct, to defy him and impeach him and offer trial of combat. On their way back to us . . . they were slain and quartered in the shambles of Rhedestos town. Meanwhile our admiral and all Catalans in the capital were massacred by the people.

  “Nonetheless the Grand Duke, En Berenguer de Entenza, took our ships to Perinthos. He stormed that city, avenged us upon its inhabitants, and filled his holds with plunder. But on his way back, he was taken by a Genoese fleet.

  “When we heard this, certain faint hearts argued we should flee to a safer place, such as the island of Mitylene. But good St. George strengthened us in our resolve. We scuttled our remaining boats to end such talk. And we made banners to carry into battle, and elected En Berenguer de Rocafort to be our commander. And we sallied forth against the Alans and drove them away with great slaughter and won an immense booty.

  “But it is only the beginning, Lucas. Only the beginning.”

  En Jaime rose, a little unsteadily. His voice had gone harsh with so much talk. He took another Venetian goblet from the sideboard. Asberto Cornel hastened to fill it for him. He drank deep.

  Lucas kept silent.

  After all, he thought, if the Empire is so far decayed that it does not even give its people protection for their un-freedom and the taxes wrung out of them, then the time is past due for a storm to lash Byzantium off the earth. A bold new people can erect something better on the ruins. I only wish I could forget how that peasant screamed as the lancer pursued him.

  A gurgling called his attention back. Violante had poured his own glass full.

  “I thank my lady,” he said, “but scarce deserve so fair a maidservant.”

  She sat down on a footstool before him. As she leaned forward, a goblet in her own hand, the blue gown shimmered along each curve of hip and leg, and his eyes were teased with glimpses of almost her whole bosom. But not quite, worse luck. His pulse jumped.

  “Oh, I shall demand my wage,” she said, smiling at him as if they shared a secret. “The whole tale of your adventures, Maestre. You may make the first payment to me at once.”

  He leaned back. Why should he flee from this: to sit drinking good wine and spinning out his own exploits before a beautiful woman? A cultivated one, too, who showed exact appreciation of each polished sentence. After so much strife, this was like coming home.

  Other conquerors had doubtless been as brutal as the Grand Catalan Company. When they had carved out their domain, if they did, one could expect them to settle down and rule justly. Or if not, well, this was a hard world. The maltreated would have their reward in Heaven. Would it not be presumptuous of Lucas Greco to ask more than that he and those he cared for should not be victims?

  Chapter VI

  The Catalan officers did not take long to drill the Turks in their signals. About that time, Greek spies brought word that Michael Paleologus, himself, had left Adrianople with a vastly superior force and was on his way against them.

  Some captains urged that they remain in Gallipoli, where their treasures were and which was readily defensible. But “In the end,” wrote En Ramon Muntaner afterward, “the council said that God and the blessed monsenyer St. Peter and St. Paul and St. George, who had given us this victory, would also give us victory over that wicked man who had so treacherously killed the Caesar; and so, that we should on no account tarry in Gallipoli; that Gallipoli was a strong place and we had made so much gain that our courage might weaken, and so that we should, on no account, allow ourselves to be besieged. And, again, that the son of the Emperor would not be able to come with the whole host assembled, rather it would suit him to form a van, and that we should meet the van and should attack it, and if we defeated it, all would be defeated. And as we could not mount to Heaven nor go down to the depths, nor go away by sea or land, therefore it followed that we had to pass through their hands, and so it was well that our courage should not be weakened by what we had gained nor by the force we saw before us.”

  Leaving their women and a hundred men to guard their stronghold, the Company marched up the peninsula and over the Thracian hills. After three days, they came to the foot of a mountain and made camp. When darkness had fallen, a red glow was seen in the sky above the ridge. Scouts were sent forth, who came back to report that the enemy lay on the plain beyond, close to the town of Imeri and the castle of Apros.

  Though he had been working daily with En Jaime de Caza, as amanuensis and Turkish interpreter, Lucas did not pretend to be a heavy cavalryman. Nor did he feel at home with the jinetes. En Jaime outfitted him from Alan booty, gave him a good horse, and put him with a section of Almugavares.

  This night he had trouble getting to sleep. Word had flown quickly through the bivouac; all knew the battle would stand tomorrow. Finally he swore, left his bedroll, and went over to sit by the nearest watchfire.

  It was the frugal kindling of experienced soldiers. A bed of coals glowed white; tiny blue flames wavered above, occasionally spitting up in red and yellow. At such times Lucas could see a few infantrymen, lying fully clad beside their weapons. The upland chill had hoarfrosted their blankets, but they slept with animal ease. Then the fire sank down again, darkness came in like a tide, nothing was to be seen but other twinkling sparks, far-strewn beneath enormous constellations. Lucas pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and held palms toward the heat.

  A sentry came by, pausing to throw on a few more twigs. He was typical of the Almugavares, who had begun as Christian outlaws, savage in the mountains, when the Moors swept across Spain, and whom the crown of Aragon had later made into a formidable military institution. Pedro was a rangy man, barbarically clad in loose coat and breeches of hide, sandals, a pouch for flint and steel. He had never shaved; the beard poured down his chest, the long hair was done up with a steel comb. His only special protection was a pair of leather half-gaiters. A dagger was at his waist, a javelin in his hand. Across his back, above the knapsack, were three other darts. Their iron heads shimmered in the gloom.

  “Why is the Maestre so late awake?” he asked. “I’ll be glad when I go off duty.”

  Lucas gave him a wry smile. He had come to like these warriors, as one might grow fond of a pet wolf. They were simple, superstitious, thinking him half wizard and half saint because he was a Maestre, a learned man; but they were also utterly loyal, quite without fear, and possessed of a certain rough gaiety.

  “There’ll be time enough to sleep tomorrow, after the battle,” he said. “For some, a very long sleep.”

  “The more plunder for the rest of us, then,” said Pedro, his cheerfulness undiminished.

  “If we win.”

  “If not, we’ll be enrolled in good St. George’s host. I daresay fine booty can be had from a raid on Hell, Maestre, seeing how many bishops and moneylenders dwell there.”

  “I wish I could be so sure we are fighting in God’s cause.”

  “Why, of course we are. Priest says so. Priest knows about t
hese things. A mercy of Heaven, that common folk like me needn’t bother our heads. Your trouble is, you think too much, if I may say so.”

  “You’re quite right,” admitted Lucas.

  “And it’s not needful,” Pedro insisted. “Our good commander, En Berenguer de Rocafort, he has all the plans made. He has everything in his head, he does.”

  “Everything? Our own dispositions, the host of the Greeks, the countryside?”

  “Just so, Maestre.”

  “Why, then, En Berenguer’s head is bigger than it looks,” said Lucas innocently.

  Pedro frowned, trying to understand. When the idea dawned on him, he slapped his thigh. “Haw, haw, hawl That’s a rare one! Bigger than it looks. Yes, I take your meaning. Ah, you’re a clever man. I must remember the jest, and try it on my relief. The commander must needs have a big head to hold all those troops. Yes, so. Haw, haw, haw!” He lifted his spear in salute and continued on his rounds.

  Lucas bent closer to the fire.

  Would God I were that easily satisfied, he thought. After a while he heard footsteps and saw a lanthorn move toward him. It was held by Asberto Cornel, who lighted a way for En Jaime de Caza. Both knights wore hauberk and mail breeches; their esquires would put the plate on them at the last moment.

  Lucas started to rise. En Jaime waved him back and sat down, too. “So you’re also wakeful,” said the Catalan. “I have been in search of someone to converse with.”

  Asberto grunted and joined them. By now Lucas knew he headed one section of cavalry in En Jaime’s division, and that his family had been vassals of the de Cazas for generations. Between him and Lucas was a stiff politeness. They exchanged as few words as possible, for he took badly the flirtations of his mistress with the newcomer.

  “A long night,” he said. “Will Micer not go lie down, at least?”

  “Not yet,” said En Jaime. “But I told you before, there’s no reason for you to follow me about if you’re weary.”

  “There is, Micer.” Asberto jerked a thumb at the glow from the enemy fires.

  “Bah! No doubt they’re aware of us, but you think not they’ve the spirit to attempt anything before sunrise, do you?”

  Asberto spat into the fire. It sizzled. “Not those gutless Greeks,” he said. “But they have mercenaries too. Alans and Vlachs and others. Night raids aren’t unknown.”

  “I have heard they total over a hundred thousand,” said En Jaime. “That may be an exaggeration. Still, many. Yes, I suppose among so many there must be a few brave souls.” And we, thought Lucas, are perhaps ten thousand in all. The fire burned upward as it caught the new fuel. En Jaime’s face stood forth in red highlights along brow and cheekbones and long curved nose. Otherwise he was nearly lost in the shadows.

  “I have a weakness, Lucas,” he said. “I am always sleepless the night before a battle.”

  Lucas said, with some puzzlement, “I was at first ... as a boy, unused to the idea I might be dead in a few hours. Then I learned to rest at every chance, though Doomsday were to be announced for the hour of matins. Tonight that habit has failed me, I know not why.”

  “Frightened?” gibed Asberto.

  En Jaime grew stiff. “Never ask that of a comrade in arms!” His bark turned to bleak precision. “Ask the forgiveness of Maestre Lucas or go to your rest.”

  “My lord!” Dismay sprang out on Asberto’s scarred countenance.

  “Go.” The noble spoke quietly. Asberto jumped up, threw Lucas one glare of hatred, and reached for the lanthorn. Then, with a glance at En Jaime, he left it there and shambled away.

  “My thanks, Micer,” said Lucas, ill at ease. “But I’m harder to insult than you. The man who says evil of me is either speaking truth, in which case I couldn’t justly take his life, or he’s a liar and his words don’t touch me.”

  “I have observed a certain flexibility in you,” agreed En Jaime dryly. “Asberto needed a lesson, though. He’s too blunt-brained to distinguish between pride and arrogance.”

  “In that, if I may say it, he merely exemplifies his countrymen.”

  “True.” For minutes, En Jaime brooded unspeaking. Somewhere in the night a horse neighed. The calls of watchmen went long-drawn, lonely, from post to post.

  Abruptly, the Catalan said: “You must not believe I am that crude. God makes a grim jest, that all high purposes must be accomplished by mortal men. Ignorant, ill-smelling, selfish, quarrelsome, flea-bitten, fornicating swine! I myself don’t think this chivvying of peasants is proper work for a knight, Lucas. It were far more valiant to settle the issue by trial of combat between champions.”

  “But supposing your champion lost, would you go home?”

  En Jaime bridled. “Without a fight? Never!” The humor struck him. He laughed. “You rogue! I think I want you with me as much for your sauciness as for your clerk skill. More, I suppose. Sour-faced priests are easy enough to come by. . . . No, I would not go home.”

  After another pause, grave again: “I have no home save this, the Grand Company.”

  “Micer spoke of a wife and son, an estate, in Catalonia.”

  “Yes. I have been briefly there, now and again. When last I departed the place, I had been married a few months. That was . . . dear saints, ten years ago! No, nearer eleven.”

  “You have never seen your son?”

  En Jaime shifted his position and scowled at the fire. “Oh, I will in time. In good time,” he muttered. “I hear from my bailiff that all goes as well as can be expected. But how can the estate be maintained as befits my name, if I don’t win enough treasure in the wars?”

  “Many other men brought their families along.”

  “Yes. Some wives. Chiefly lemans, however. Sluts!” En Jaime raised his lip so the teeth gleamed. “That’s what I meant when I said God’s purposes--like this vengeance on the Greek betrayal, and extension of the Holy Catholic Faith--God’s purposes must be accomplished by swine.” Lucas grinned. “I’ve observed you too, Micer, give way to Na Violante.”

  “Oh, her? She’s a witch, first wheedling, then threatening, till it’s easier to yield than assert oneself. And her husband was a gallant man. For his sake--still more so, for Asberto’s, who has ever been faithful to me--ah, she punishes him enough for his sins. I’d pity any man caught in so foul a trap.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Be careful. Lechery is a mortal sin.”

  “There are worse ones,’’ said Lucas, thinking of a servant in Gallipoli who was given twenty lashes for spilling hot soup on an officer.

  En Jaime’s tone grew gentle. “I am also a sinful man, Lucas. I dare not think how deeply I have blackened my soul. But by God’s grace I have remained true, as a knight should be, to one God, one king, and one lady.”

  The fire sank low again.

  “Not the lady that I wed,” said En Jaime. “Mine is among the saints. These twenty years or more.”

  He got to his feet. “It were best if we both tried to sleep,” he said roughly. He snatched up the lanthorn and strode into darkness.

  When the first lightening came in the east, the army bestirred itself. Trumpets blew, a cold-sounding summons under the stars; men grumbled awake, jumped about on the ground, slapped arms over backs to work out the night’s stiffness.

  Lucas found himself at the head of a line of Almugavares, before a booth in which a priest stood to hear confession. Every man was to receive Holy Communion before the battle. He had made a perfunctory account of sins in Gallipoli, for in this band no one but the allied Turks dared incur clerical disapproval. Now, with spears awaiting him beyond the mountain, he felt a sudden wish to be more genuinely at peace with God. But many must be shriven in the scant time available; and he was less troubled by guilt than by doubts, a sense of lostness, for which no absolution existed. With an inward shrug, he knelt and rattled off a few incidents of anger or envy. The priest gave him twenty Paternosters to say and dismissed him.

  When the Host was elevated against a dawning sky, and a
murmur of awe went through the weapon-clad thousands, Lucas felt himself altogether alone.

  Then there was no chance to think. A snatched bite of bread and salt fish, a gulp of water. Trumpets resounded and kettledrums rolled. The three battle banners of the Lord King of Aragon, the King of Sicily and St. George were lifted high. The wind caught them; the first sunbeams shouted in their colors. Lucas swung to the saddle. “Forward!” he said, needlessly, for the Almugavares were already a-tramp.

  Up the plowed mountainside the Grand Company went. On its heights they stopped and looked down at the Imperial force.

  Lucas rose in his stirrups to get a better view. Hauberk and helmet weighed on him; he carried a leather buckler on his left arm and a saber at his hip.

  “One trouble with charging Greeks,” Pedro said. “When they see you coming, they wet their pants so hard it turns the ground all muddy.” Laughter barked down the hairy ranks.

  The Company was drawn up in four divisions: Almugavares, mounted and afoot, for the main body and the reserve; Turks on the wings; the chivalry at the center. Lucas was a little forward of his own battalion. To his left, he could see the Asiatics holding their restless mounts in check. Ahead and to his right, somewhat downhill of him, gleamed the knights. Their surcoats splashed brown earth and wan sky with color, their pennons snapped in the breeze. Many had donned full heaumes, turning themselves into faceless, slit-eyed monsters grotesquely crested.

  Below the mountain and across the plain, still hazed, Lucas discerned town and fortress. The Byzantine army was drawn up on the plains. At this distance it appeared as a single mass, glittering at points where metal flung the light back into his eyes. He suppressed a whistle. That army spread across the valley floor; its camp, off to one side, was a city of tents and wagons.