Stories Thread

[_Tristan_]

The Dirty Dozen
Cilician Armenia, September 7th 1071-September 8th 1071

Leaving the tent Methodios joined his men by their camp fire. Those were the men he had been living with for two years now. Men that had served under his father until a Turkish arrow had taken him. The men felt as if they owed the son what they couldn’t achieve for the father.

Sitting by the fire, there was old Bjarki, the former Varangian, come from the cold northern wastes with Methodios’ father to serve for the Empire. Next to him sat Sergios, Methodios’ standard bearer. A bull of a man, short and squat, with the strength of the heroes of old. Facing him, was Nikolas, Methodios’ squire, the last to join Methodios’ bodyguard. A street urchin, he had the quick wit and quick reflexes born of necessity, almost always playing with the knives he liked to keep secreted about his person. Tending the fire was dark-skinned Adrastos, born of a Nubian mother and a Greek father, a patch of burnt skin on his shoulder where the mark of his former master had been burnt into his flesh. He had gained his freedom defending his master’s home against a Turkish raiding party and gained his freedom this way. Methodios had never seen a man who could throw a javelin so far or with so much accuracy. A little further back from the fire, tending the horses was Nikodemos. The man seemed to be able to talk to horses. Before being forced into military life, he had been a lad working the stalls at the Hippodrome, getting to know the horses and dreaming of driving a race chariot. There was also Antonios, whose mastery of the bow came from having lived his early years on the northern shore of the Black Sea, among the nomad tribes... There were also Hilarion, a never-ending scowl on his face belying his name, Antonios, Elias, and others still… Never had such a score of men been assembled in a single unit… All of them had a life-story worth of a Nordic saga or a poem of Homer… Such as those that Methodios’ father liked to tell his son the few times he managed to be home…

Those men had all at one time came to serve under his father’s orders… Now they served under him… Methodios was proud of the honor but fearful at the same time : he didn’t want to disappoint the trust these men had put in him.

Taking the bowl of food that Adrastos handed him, Methodios sat by the fire contemplating what was at work behind the scenes… For surely, there was some dark clouds brewing on the horizon.

Having eaten, Methodios rolled in his blanket, shutting out the noise of the men and horses, hoping for some undisturbed dreams.

Dawn came… A cold autumn sun cast a grey light over the camp. Fires were stoked, horses whinnied, men started about their daily chores.

Methodios woke up, put on his sword-belt and walked down to the nearby stream to refresh himself. Once done, he began practicing with his sword, gliding from one move to the other, striking down one imaginary enemy after the other.

A young soldier planted himself at attention in Methodios’ field of vision, not daring to interrupt him.

Methodios stopped and faced the young man, sheathing his sword in the same move. “What is it, soldier ?”

“Sir, the general summons you and your men. You are to assemble in full gear and join him by the command tent.” The soldier said, giving a sharp salute and turning on his heels before Methodios could answer or ask a single question.

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