allow his self-pity free rein, I said: ‘I would like to take a troop of Varangians to Daphne tomorrow. There may be food there as yet untouched.’
Tatikios waved an arm dismissively. ‘As you wish, Demetrios. We will not need the men here. The city will not fall tomorrow, nor any other day if this course persists. Go to Daphne, if you will. I doubt that you will find anything.’
θ
We had to walk to Daphne, Sigurd and I and a dozen Varangians, for our horses were too few and feeble to waste. We passed the new mound opposite the bridge, where two wooden towers had now risen on the rubble of the cemetery, and followed the Saint Simeon road south-west until we had left the city well behind us. By a plane tree a path forked down to the ford, and we splashed our way through the waist-deep water. The river was cold and urgent, harrying our steps and always threatening to dislodge our feet from the weed-green rocks, yet there was something pleasing in its eagerness. Though I was not thirsty, I stopped midstream where a boulder gave me purchase and scooped a palmful of water into my mouth. The chill trickling down my throat was exhilarating, though it stirred my stomach to fresh pangs of hunger.
As we climbed the slopes of the far shore, my mood sobered. None of the lands south of Antioch were safe, but the eastern bank of the Orontes especially was the preserve of the Turks. I had chosen a minimal company to escort me, for I had little confidence in my errand, but I regretted it ever more as we advanced down the empty road. The rising sun crossed our path so that we could see barely more than the stony ground at our feet, while the flashing bows of light from the Varangians’ axes would have acted as a clear beacon – or target – to any spies in the hills.
Sigurd, whose own axe twitched in his hands, gestured down the long valley to where the river now turned towards the sea. ‘It could be worse,’ he grunted. ‘The march from Dorylaeum – that was bad.’
It had been. For six weeks in high summer we had limped across the Anatolian highlands, chasing a beaten army which spoiled or destroyed every living thing in its path. Without food or water, men and beasts had died in unnumbered thousands, their bones left by the wayside because we were too weak to dig graves. We could not travel by night for fear of ambush so the July sun shrivelled our bodies as hard as olives, the sweat wrung from us until we could sweat no more. The jaws of cisterns gaped empty where the Turks had cracked them open; we lacerated our cheeks trying to chew the spiny bushes for moisture. My tongue had become like a splinter in my mouth, so dry that I had imagined I might snap it in two between my teeth. In the evenings we did not pitch camp but fell where we stopped. Not all of us rose in the mornings. Oxen became the steeds of lords, and dogs were our pack animals. And every day the land around remained unchanged: a waste of dust and thorns, broken only by mountains on a horizon which never approached. None of us who emerged from that desert would ever entirely wash away the dust on our souls.
‘There.’
Thankfully Sigurd’s voice recalled me from bitter memories. Shielding his eyes, he pointed ahead to where a gaggle of low houses had come into view at the top of the ridge. We walked on towards them, crossing a wooden bridge over a stream and climbing to the village between terraced fields overrun with weeds. It was a humble place, a dozen stone cottages built together in pairs and a score of timber shacks surrounding them. Even at mid-morning there was an unnatural quiet about it: no women drew water from the well, no goats bleated in the enclosures, and nothing pulled the ploughs which lay rotting by the barns. Sigurd slung his shield on his arm and lifted his axe in caution.
‘We need to find the house of the sun,’ I said, uneasy at the sound of my voice in the silence.
‘What does that mean?’
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps a house
Tatikios waved an arm dismissively. ‘As you wish, Demetrios. We will not need the men here. The city will not fall tomorrow, nor any other day if this course persists. Go to Daphne, if you will. I doubt that you will find anything.’
θ
We had to walk to Daphne, Sigurd and I and a dozen Varangians, for our horses were too few and feeble to waste. We passed the new mound opposite the bridge, where two wooden towers had now risen on the rubble of the cemetery, and followed the Saint Simeon road south-west until we had left the city well behind us. By a plane tree a path forked down to the ford, and we splashed our way through the waist-deep water. The river was cold and urgent, harrying our steps and always threatening to dislodge our feet from the weed-green rocks, yet there was something pleasing in its eagerness. Though I was not thirsty, I stopped midstream where a boulder gave me purchase and scooped a palmful of water into my mouth. The chill trickling down my throat was exhilarating, though it stirred my stomach to fresh pangs of hunger.
As we climbed the slopes of the far shore, my mood sobered. None of the lands south of Antioch were safe, but the eastern bank of the Orontes especially was the preserve of the Turks. I had chosen a minimal company to escort me, for I had little confidence in my errand, but I regretted it ever more as we advanced down the empty road. The rising sun crossed our path so that we could see barely more than the stony ground at our feet, while the flashing bows of light from the Varangians’ axes would have acted as a clear beacon – or target – to any spies in the hills.
Sigurd, whose own axe twitched in his hands, gestured down the long valley to where the river now turned towards the sea. ‘It could be worse,’ he grunted. ‘The march from Dorylaeum – that was bad.’
It had been. For six weeks in high summer we had limped across the Anatolian highlands, chasing a beaten army which spoiled or destroyed every living thing in its path. Without food or water, men and beasts had died in unnumbered thousands, their bones left by the wayside because we were too weak to dig graves. We could not travel by night for fear of ambush so the July sun shrivelled our bodies as hard as olives, the sweat wrung from us until we could sweat no more. The jaws of cisterns gaped empty where the Turks had cracked them open; we lacerated our cheeks trying to chew the spiny bushes for moisture. My tongue had become like a splinter in my mouth, so dry that I had imagined I might snap it in two between my teeth. In the evenings we did not pitch camp but fell where we stopped. Not all of us rose in the mornings. Oxen became the steeds of lords, and dogs were our pack animals. And every day the land around remained unchanged: a waste of dust and thorns, broken only by mountains on a horizon which never approached. None of us who emerged from that desert would ever entirely wash away the dust on our souls.
‘There.’
Thankfully Sigurd’s voice recalled me from bitter memories. Shielding his eyes, he pointed ahead to where a gaggle of low houses had come into view at the top of the ridge. We walked on towards them, crossing a wooden bridge over a stream and climbing to the village between terraced fields overrun with weeds. It was a humble place, a dozen stone cottages built together in pairs and a score of timber shacks surrounding them. Even at mid-morning there was an unnatural quiet about it: no women drew water from the well, no goats bleated in the enclosures, and nothing pulled the ploughs which lay rotting by the barns. Sigurd slung his shield on his arm and lifted his axe in caution.
‘We need to find the house of the sun,’ I said, uneasy at the sound of my voice in the silence.
‘What does that mean?’
I shrugged. ‘Perhaps a house
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