Imperial Fire (21 page)

Otia fingered his throat. ‘The guards must have aided him.’

Vallon didn’t turn. ‘Who were they? Who selected them?’

Josselin stood rigid. ‘I did, sir. I chose two four-man shifts, all from different squads to reduce the risk of any conniving.’

Vallon threw out a hand. ‘Call a muster. See who’s missing.’ He pivoted. ‘Skleros wouldn’t have escaped unless he was certain that Mochila would offer him sanctuary.’

‘Ride back to Ushguli and demand the duke’s return,’ Josselin said. ‘Lay the place under siege if necessary.’

‘You’ve seen its defences,’ said Otia. ‘We’d go hungry long before the Svans feel the pinch.’

‘Destroy a tower or two with the trebuchet. That would bring Mochila to his senses.’

‘Do that,’ said Otia, ‘and we’ll make foes of every mountain tribe we meet.’

Wulfstan stroked his moustaches. ‘General, if I was you —’

Vallon lashed out. ‘You’re not, damn it, and if you tell me one more time that I should have killed the duke, I’ll cut off your other hand and choke you with it.’

Wulfstan assumed a martyr’s air. ‘I wasn’t going to say that, General. The way I see it, we have a hundred Svans at our mercy. Hold them hostage against the Duke’s return.’

‘Otia?’ said Vallon. ‘Would that work?’

The centurion breathed out. ‘You have to consider how the Svans regard us. To them we’re unwelcome foreigners carrying rich cargo – sheep ripe for fleecing as far as Mochila’s concerned. If the duke escaped because of our negligence, we have only ourselves to blame.’

Wulfstan made to spit and only just remembered the company he kept. ‘He won’t feel so cunning if we hang a dozen of his kinsmen outside Ushguli.’

Wayland saw Vallon giving serious consideration to the suggestion and weighed in. ‘Our mission isn’t ruined if we don’t get the duke back. He must have promised gold in exchange for freedom, but the gold isn’t in his gift.’

Vallon stared through him. ‘Allow the Svans to go unpunished and every tribe we encounter will take it as licence to attack us.’

‘And if we exact revenge, every tribe will treat us as enemies.’

Vallon pondered. ‘The duke will tell the Svans how much wealth we’re carrying. What I don’t understand is how Mochila expects to lay his hands on it. We’re out of his territory and I can’t imagine he’d want to share any spoils with his neighbours.’

‘I think he’ll deliver Skleros to the Georgians,’ Otia said. ‘For a hefty price, of course. That’s the only outcome that would benefit the duke. Without Georgian help, he’ll never reach Trebizond. He’ll pay for that passage by reporting our route and telling the Georgians how much wealth we’re carrying. If I’m right, we can expect a bloody reception on the road to the Daryal Gorge.’

‘Mochila will be aware of the mischief Skleros can do to us and might offer to eliminate it by returning him for a ransom.’

‘A price worth paying,’ Otia said. ‘We’re not strong enough to take on the Georgian army.’

Aimery entered to confirm that the duke and his guards were gone.

Vallon paced back and forth in the confined space. He stopped and everybody held their breath. ‘Bring me Mochila’s leading man.’

The general waited, legs akimbo. Two troopers shoved a Svan warrior into the tent. He smirked around at the company, his smile fraying when it settled on Vallon.

‘Ask him what price Mochila demands for the duke’s return.’

‘He claims to have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Otia said.

Vallon’s sword came out with a slither. ‘Ask him again.’

A long wrangle ensued before Otia delivered the terms. ‘He swears that Mochila isn’t harbouring the duke, but says that the Svans will do everything they can to hunt him down and return him to our custody. Naturally, Mochila would expect a reward.’

‘How much?’

‘Half our gold and treasure.’

Vallon considered the demand as if it were a reasonable basis for negotiation. He pointed at the Svan. ‘Take him out and hang him. Keep as many of his clan as we need to transport our supplies to the next settlement, and drive the rest away.’

Otia grimaced. ‘Executing him would be seen as a declaration of war by all the mountain tribes. It’s a war we can’t win. They’ll winnow us away by ones and twos until nothing is left of us except a highlander’s proud memory and a rusty Byzantine corselet nailed to a wall.’

‘And if we don’t exact justice, every petty lord will take it as an invitation to gnaw on our bones.’ Vallon’s forefinger jabbed. ‘Even if we paid the ransom, Mochila would still betray us to the Georgians. I’m damned if I’ll let him line his pockets twice over at our expense.’ Vallon caught his breath and spoke with calm finality. ‘The sentence stands. Execute it forthwith.’

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.’