Stories Thread

[_Tristan_]

Judas’ Gold
Cilician Armenia, September 8th 1071

The clouds had parted and with the sun now high in the sky, heat-waves obscured the horizon. Tarchaneiotes and his men were in the lead. A small company of a barely a hundred men with Methodios’ and his men given the rearguard detail.

Nothing had transpired of their mission or their destination since Methodios had reported to the command tent with his men in full battle-gear.

They had ridden for four hours now, picking their way across this hilly and barren country.

Finally the gorge into which they had ridden some time ago opened into a large clearing.

To Methodios’ surprise, the clearing was not devoid of life. And the sight sent a chill down Methodios’ spine…

In a middle of the clearing sat a huge pavilion on the summit of which floated in the feeble breeze a pennant with a blood-red crescent on a field of green.

“Turks…” growled Sergios, right behind Methodios “By the tits of my last whore… What is this ?”

Methodios was nonplussed. They had been looking for the Turks for almost a month now, riding north and south, east and west, not even catching a whiff of their scent… And now, leaving the main force behind them, Tarchaneiotes led them unswervingly to the Turkish camp. Something was afoot.

Turning to his men, Methodios issued a warning in a low voice. “Remain vigilant and prepared to ride. Loosen your weapons.”

Seeing that his orders had reached the last of his men, Methodios turned back to see his general reaching the command tent.

The Byzantine riders spread on either side of the General’s bodyguard. As rearguard, Methodios and his men remained a bit further to the back of Tarchaneiotes.

The Turks had arrayed themselves on both sides of the tent. Methodios counted less than 500 men., still more than three times the number of Tarchanieotes’ men in the clearing. Was that the army that hoped to surprise us ? Methodios mused.

Tarchaneiotes got down from his horse as a Turkish dignitary came out of the tent, a large smile upon his face. He wore a large red black turban on his head and long flowing gold-embroidered robes, of a Persian design.

“As Salaam Aleikum, General” said the Turk, bowing low. “Finally, we meet. I am Abu Ali al-Hasan al-Tusi Nizam al-Mulk, Vizier of our Great Sultan Alp Arslan, may Allah bless his name.”

“Greetings, Vizier. Forgive me if I seem gruff but what news do you have ? It’s been a long time since we’ve had contact with the Emperor.” Tarcheneiotes asked.

Hearing the greetings exchanged, Methodios’ anguish deepened.

“You are forgiven. I have great news. All went according to plan. Diogenes has been defeated at Manzikert…” An outcry of incredulity rippled across the assembled kataphraktoi, drowning the remaining words from al-Mulk. “… and captured. Though our Sultan in his great mercy has freed him and sent him back to his own lands, along with all other prisoners.”

“Great news indeed” Tarchaneiotes answered “A nice victory for your Sultan but a victory he could not have achieved had my forces been there at Manzikert.”

“True, true indeed, General.” Al-Mulk acquiesced. “A devious plan you devised…”

Methodios had not lost a word of the exchange between the two men. Tarchaneiotes had betrayed the Emperor, taking his whole army off the main battlefield, forging a defeat out of what should have been a victory.

“Yes… A devious plan… But deviousness has a price, no ?”

“True, once again… You are not one to dally in double-talk, General. We had an agreement. You fulfilled your part of the bargain. I will fulfil ours in the name of our Sultan.”

Al-Mulk made a sign to one of his aides. Instantly, four soldiers came forward carrying a large coffer, depositing it in front of Tarchaneiotes.

“Here are your thirty pieces of silver, General…” Al-Mulk said, a wide grin on his face. “…though there a bit more than thirty of them in there, nor are they silver…” A short laugh… “But you get my meaning…”

Tarchaneiotes eyes burned with anger. The Turk had just called him a traitor and there was nothing he could do. Instead he simply said, his voice hardly masking his fury “And that other service, we required of you ?”

Methodios sat his horse, dumb-struck. Tarchaneiotes, a traitor… And for what ? Not glory, not honours but gold… Only gold… Fury welled up in him but he had to contain it. If he let it run its course, fury would destroy him (no great loss there) but he had taken the responsibility of seeing to the welfare of his men.

“That should be over as we speak. Anything else you require of us, friend ?”

Visibly relieved, Tarchaneiotes nodded. “One more small favour… I would prefer if there were not so much witnesses to our bargain.” Inclining his head to left and right, indicating the kataphraktoi standing in a line facing the Turks.

“I thought so” Al-Mulk said, raising his right arm.

Suddenly, a cry reverberated over the clearing where the Seljuk camp was set up.

“Archers !!”

The spearmen that had stood in the front rows of the Turkish lines, dropped to one knee, lowering their lances. The archers in the back rows banded their bows.

“Fire !!”

A rain of arrows shot at the lined-up horsemen, felling horses and men alike, both on the left and right of Tarchaneiotes. Methodios and his men were spared only by standing behind the General and his own bodyguard.

“Forward !!!”

The spearmen lunged from their crouching positions running for the few riders still standing, driving their spears to the horses’ breasts, making them fall thus pinning their riders, before slaughtering them.

Wheeling his horse and drawing his sword, Methodios howled to his men “Run, men !!! Run for your lives !!!”

Spurring his horse forward, Methodios drive his charger between the fast closing sides of the Turkish pincers, seeing that his men had not lost time in following but were hard on his tail. The gorge through which they had entered the clearing was the only way out.

As he neared the entrance, Methodios saw that some fifty Turkish spearmen had taken position there, blocking the way, bracing behind their shields, spear-points driven forward. Slowing his horse to a canter, Methodios let his men catch up to him, forming up in a wedge.

“Either we break them or we die trying…” Methodios said to his men.

Spurring his horse, Methodios howled his father’s battle cry “Odin !!!”

The cry was answered by twenty voices covering the noise of the horses’hooves “Odin !!!”

Methodios saw that Bjarki had placed himself on his left and Adrastos on his right.

The horses gained speed, the spear-points came rushing forward… With a bone-jarring impact, Methodios’ kontos struck one of the Turks, hurling him five feet backwards, into the rows of men positioned behind him, the momentum of Methodios’ horse crushing several men, the hooves crushing arms and ribcages.

A quick look to the sides showed that both Bjarki and Adrastos had made successful charges.

Then the line of spearmen lay behind Methodios… He was in the gorge, racing like mad in the narrow space between the high cliffs. The clatter of the horses’ hooves reverberated on the rocks, a noise of thunder, a noise of impending doom…

Coming out of the gorge, Methodios took stock of his surroundings. A brief look shown him that all of his men were still with him though one or two seemed wounded, riding slouched in their saddles.

“Let’s hope they can make it back to camp”, Methodios thought. “I must warn the others of Tarchaneiotes’ treachery”.

No chasers seemed to be coming out of the gorge but Methodios let his horse run at full speed. Not fearing for his life but fearing instead for the rest of the army.

******

[ULC]

Antioch, Order of St. John's encampment, 1089

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Produced with a great heaping help from Privateerkev

A light breeze swept in from the sea, carrying with it the sweet scent of the Mediterranean. The sun was just starting to rise, casting a warm glow over the landscape. Iakovos shifted his weight, clearly impatient. His uncle was to have been due by now, but he hadn't shown up for the last three days, and Iakovos had grown both worried and irritated. Iakovos sighed, and motioned for Nikitas to come forth. Nikitas had the distinction of being the head of Iakovos's bodyguard, and the only full blooded Greek among them.
"Yes m'lord?"
"Any reports from Mikhail and Emin yet?
"None sir. And we haven't received..."
Nikitas stops in midsentence to watch as two of Iakovos guard lead an man in Templar colors down the trail to the camp. Iakovos shouts joyfully when he realizes it is Levon and Emin with his uncle Ulrich.

Iakovos leads his uncle through the camp to his tent, his guard following closely behind. "I am surprised that Emin wasn't able to find you Uncle, he has never let me down before." Ulrich chuckles. "You should remember my occupation Jakob. Emin is good, but he is still young yet, and experience trumps enthusiasm." Iakovos shakes his head as they weave there way through the encampment. "I'll show you to my tent first, and we can rest before I notify the Grandmaster of your arrival." Ulrich nods in understanding. "Interesting that I should find you a member of this Order of St. John. Quite a twist of fate."

Iakovos made his way to Makedonios' tent with Nikitas and Ulrich in tow, and when he met with the guards stationed outside the tent, Iakovos calmly replied to there query. "My Uncle has arrived, and if the Grandmaster is well enough, I can summon him so that we may discuss matters."

The guard nodded and went inside the tent. He reappeared within seconds and said, "The Grandmaster is expecting you. The two of you can go in."

Makedonios sat on his bed. Reports were spread all over the covers. A pile of books were on a bedside table. It is clear the Grandmaster is trying to occupy all of the freetime he has while bedridden. He smiled warmly at his Sergeant.

"Iakovos, I see your uncle was able to make it." He then addressed the uncle, "I apologize for not getting up. I seem to have caught something while camping out outside of the city's walls. It leaves me quite weak most of the time. Now your nephew here said you wished to see me?"

Ulrich nodded. "Yes, although I am sorry to hear you in such poor health, and I hope you a speedy recovery. I would have been here much earlier if my nephew hadn't been so worried he tried to track me with his men." Ulrich gives a sideways glance at Iakovos.

Turning back to Makedonios, Ulrich smiled and rubbed his hands together. "First of the many things. I do not know how much my nephew has told you of me, but I come from Hamburg, and deal in arms and armor. I wonder if you would be willing to allow me to supply you some of my finest equipment to the Order of St. John."

Makedonios thought for a moment.

"Unfortunately, we have no armorers in Nicosia and there are none in Antioch. So, I don't see any way to equip this army in bulk yet. All of the members of the Order and their bodyguards have very high quality armor already. As for supplying us directly, I fear that might not be allowed, Imperial bureaucracy being what it is. What I can do is make sure you get the contracts to supply the armor facilities with raw material when the buildings get completed. I'm afraid I can't do much for you now but in the future, we will have the buildings to manufacture higher quality armor and we'll need experts such as yourself to help us get the process started."

Ulrich smiled. "Good, thats all I'd ask for someone in your position. I can only hope that you soon have the proper facilities in place. Now, may I ask what your intention is toward the Knights Templar in Tortosa? I have business with them currently. I ask only to know whether or not I should be relocating." Ulrich smiles, then it fades as something dawns on him. "Jakob, I believe I left behind something in your tent, a letter I believe. Could you fetch it for me?" Iakovos nods and salutes Makedonios before leaving.

Ulrich turns back to Makedonios. "Now, to the meat of this conversation. I am concerned about my nephew, Grandmaster, and I think Outremer will be the death of him. I have already tried to convince to leave, but he flatly refuses me. You may or may not know he had to other brothers, both were involved at Manzikert, and supposedly both are dead. But I have gotten wind his brother Aleksios is alive, and he serves the Turks as Iskander Ajam. If Jakob where to..."

Makedonios holds up his hand.

"Please, one question at a time. Your nephew is his own man. I invited him into this because I thought such a thing would appeal to him. Every member of the Order is a volunteer. No one forces us to be here. As for Manzikert, that was a nasty bit of business. I know because I was there. There certainly was betrayal involved. I only hope that anyone from an honorable family such as yours took the honorable way out and sought a good death."

The Grandmaster stops and coughs for a few seconds.

"Excuse me. My mouth won't stop filling with phlegm. Anyways, on to your other queury. The Knights at Tortosa worry me."

Makedonios sits back and waits for the uncle's reaction.

Ulrich shakes his head and smiles. "I'm sorry, I'm letting rumor get to an old man. I am sure Ja...Iakovos, will make the right decision. As to the Knights, I worry with you. I am catholic as they are, yet their fervor frightens me, and what they are willing to do. I came with them only to get closer to Iakovos.But as to the Knights...is there something you wish to know?"

The Grandmaster sits and wonders how much to tell the older man. Finally he asks simply, "Will there be more?"

Ulrich ponders for a moment. With a grim face, answers in return. "Yes, if not the Knights Templar, then many more. From Venice, from the Holy Roman Empire, from England and France, from Spain and Portugal, they will come from even the lowliest duchy. Indeed, if the Pope calls for more, more will come."

Makedonios coughs for a moment while he takes in what the uncle said.

"Please don't take offense to what I am about to say. But this place is not meant to be governed by Catholics. The Byzantine Empire has been stewards of the Holy Lands for centuries. Our absence from this area has only been temporary. Catholic pilgrims will always be welcome here. But Catholic kingdoms holding land over here is... problematic."

Ulrich nods. "I believe I understand the implications, and I can only hope that instead my brethren support the Empire in it's reclamation of the Holy Land. But they bow to every whim of the Papacy. My family is known for our "eccentric" religious beliefs, one being that the Papacy does more harm then good." Ulrich said "eccentric" with considerable distaste.

Makedonios raises an eyebrow. "If by 'brethren' you mean the Templars, I somehow doubt they will let an Orthodox kingdom rule over them. I do not know much about them, but they seem to be fanatics."

"Then you read them correctly. They have sworn themselves to serve God, but I do not see it. I see them only bringing death, not peace." Ulrich is interrupted by Iakovos returning. He salutes before entering. "Grandmaster, Uncle. I found your letter Uncle." Iakovos looks over Makedonios. "Uncle Ulrich hasn't pushed you to have me married has he? He knows I have made vows..." Ulrich chokes for a moment, from laughter or surprise one cannot tell. Iakovos gives him a wry look.

With a smile, Makedonios said, "Not at all. Your uncle has just been talking to me about our neighbors to the south. You seem to have quite a family history Iakovos. Don't worry, the Order is an open and forgiving lot. As long as you follow the Charter and serve loyally, I care not what kind of past a Sergeant brings with him. Your past is between you and God. Some in the Senate might not understand however so you might want to use discretion with regards to who you talk to about these matters."

Iakovos is stunned slightly, unable to form words for a few seconds. He turns to Ulrich with a look of slight disbelief, then back to Makedonios. Ulrich speaks up. "I thank you Grandmaster for your time, especially in your condition. I think me and my nephew will leave you to your peace now." Ulrich stands up and reaches out to shake Makedonios's hand.

Makedonios takes his hand and shakes it firmly. "It was good to meet you sir. You have a good nephew here and he has done much to make you proud. I'll make sure he gets word to you when we get armor producing facilities up and running."

The Grandmaster nods to Iakovos and picks up a report as the two men leave the tent.

[deguerra]

(more to come)

Rodos, 1086

Ioannis Kalameteros twists and turns on his field bed. He has not been sleeping well, the strains of a stretched siege wrecking his nerves and keeping him awake for hours most night.

He lies in the dark, trying to be calm, trying hard to purge his mind of thoughts, to overcome the anger welling up in him, anger at not being able to sleep, at the stupidity of the defenders of Rodos, at this whole damned island. His blood is pulsing in his ears, spots are flashing before his eyes, sweat is dripping from his face as he finally falls into an uncomfortable sleep.

A flash. It is summer. His eyes are closed, but he can feel the warmth on his skin, perceive the light just beyond his eyelids, smell the flowers and the grass, bathe in the tranquility. He opens his eyes.

Around him is a small garden, shining serenely in the afternoon sun. The image is not clear, the edges of his vision seem blurred and flicker but whenever he turns his head, the flickering moves with it. He notices two girls chatting in the grass off to his right. Their faces tickle his memory, but he cannot name them. This place, this moment, he knows it, but just as he seems about to remember, memory eludes him again.

A man enters his vision from the left, walking along a small stone path that winds its through the garden. His clothes are of good quality but plain. The man is tall, with arms slightly too large for his body, the lines of his face obscured by a well trimmed beard. That face, it is...it is...it is his face, it is him, only older, much older. He springs to his feet, an urge to run to the man with his face, to himself. The man turns, a warm smile on his face. As he speaks, the blurred edges of Ioannis' vision expand and expand until at last they obscure it all.

"He has become emperor, my boy!"

A flash, and then there is darkness. Back on Rodos, Ioannis starts breathing more deeply, two words resonating in his head: "My boy, my boy, my boy..."

[_Tristan_]

Turkish Bloodbath
Cilician Armenia, September 8th 1071

The horses were almost out of breath, foam coming out of their mouths, their flanks coated in sweat.
The sun was already beginning to set behind the western hills when Methodios and his men neared the camp of the Tagmata.

A lump of lead seemed to have fallen to the pit of Methodios’ stomach. The flight of vultures in the sky was a sure sign of carnage.

Crossing one last ridge, Methodios and his men came upon the camp. Everywhere men lay sprawled in their blood, the cook-fires overturned, the horses either gone or dead… Not a living soul in sight… But above all the permeating and sickening stench of blood freshly spilled.

A noise of retching came from behind Methodios, himself not far from being sick.

“Too late…” Methodios cursed. “We are too late…”

The Seljuks had come and gone, taking with them the lives of so many brave soldiers, soldiers of the Empire…

Most of the men had not even had time to don their armour, some had not even been able to get out of their tents.

“We had barely left the camp when this happened” Bjarki said, a sad look upon his face. “We could have been among them but for that traitor’s summons… Pfah !! Curse his name and his line !! May the Norns cut his thread soon !!”

Methodios reached a decision.

“Bjarki, see to the wounded… Nikolas and Sergios, go and see if you can find some spare horses in the hills… The Turks can’t have taken them all… Some must have run away… Adrastos, lead the others and gather what provisions and weapons you can muster, we will need them… If we are to go back to Constantinople”.

Without a word, the men set to their separate tasks. Methodios got down from his horse, leading him by the reins towards the central square where Tarchaneiotes’ tent had once stood, intent on finding the maps that would help him plot his course for Constantinople.

“If what the Turk said is true, then the Emperor is alive and well… He must be warned of Tarchaneiotes’ treachery.” Methodios resolved.

******

[_Tristan_]

An outlaw
Sea of Marmara, near Constantinople, April 16th 1072.

The sea-gull drifted high above the ship, spotting the lonely figure by the rail at the front of the ship.
Swooping down to get a better view, the gull could see that it was a large man with sun-coloured hair, dressed with a black-cloak draped over his shoulders, against the biting wind that helped the gull remain in flight. Seeing that there was no food to be gained from that man, the gull veered to the left, away from the ship and towards the wharves of Constantinople, hoping to catch some fish from the fisher-crafts laying at anchor in the harbour.

Methodios stood at the portside railing of the ship watching a gull swoop down from the sky towards him then quickly veering away from the ship and towards the harbour.

“So free, nothing to weigh her down..” Methodios thought with envy.

It was almost half a year now since his self-appointed mission weighed down on him. Half a year since he had witnessed his mentor betray all that he thought he stood for the simplest sin of all : greed…

Over the last months he and his men had crossed all of Anatolikon, avoiding Turkish raiding parties, not of out of fear but because nothing could stand between him and his mission. His own retinue of men had followed him. Some had already crossed the Straits, seeking employment of one type or another, Methodios being unable to afford to keep them in his employ. Now, he had remained in Nikaia too long. It was time for him to cross and gain an audience with the Basileos to tell him how Joseph Tarchaneiotes, his second-in-command, his most trusted general had betrayed him, had him lose the battle at Manzikert, thus precipitating the fall of the Empire, opening Anatolikon to the ravages of the Turkish hordes.

Methodios had not heard of Tarchaneiotes’ fate after that fateful autumn day… “The man must be living at the Turkish court now… A privileged courtier, richer than most…” Methodios half-convinced himself.

Half-convinced because two days ago, he had received a letter from Nikodemos, written for him by a priest, where he put some clues as to what had happened of Tarchaneiotes.

The letter had prompted Methodios to action. Until then, he had dallied, unsure as to the reception he would get from the Emperor. A ruler does not like to be remembered of their past failures…

A sudden thud caught Methodios’ attention. The boat had reached the quay and the lines were being launched overboard to the men on the wharf.

A flurry of activity greeted Methodios as he made landfall, fishermen with baskets full of still-live fishes making their way to the market, dockers with bales of wool coming or going from the ships at anchor, peddlers trying to sell their wares to the passengers...

Making his way through the crowd, a task made a bit easier by standing a full head over the crowd, Methodios left the dock district behind him and set course for the Hippodrome where he was to find Nikodemos. The man had once again found employ at the Hippodrome, as a race official. The wound he had suffered when breaking away from the Turkish trap had healed badly, forbidding him from ever driving a chariot in a race… His limp would probably prevent him from ever going into battle again.

It was nearly two months now that Nikodemos was in Constantinople, time enough for him to gather what knowledge there was to gather… The Hippodrome was the temple of gossip, every level of Byzantine society mixed in the hallways, from the lowest of servants to the highest of nobles… Fortunes were made and lost in the blink of an eye… And Nikodemos stood at the centre of it all, like a spider in her web, trapping information instead of flies…

There were no races today thus Nikodemos was sitting at a table in front of one of the tavern facing the main entrance to the Hippodrome, drinking chilled wine and taking the first warm rays of the spring sun. A familiar figure crossing the square caught his attention.

“Methodios !!” he cried, bounding to his feet, overturning the table, sending goblet and pitcher crashing to the floor. Reaching the large blond man, he caught him in a tight embrace, reciprocated by the large man.

“You seem to do rather well since our last meeting, Nikodemos” Methodios said, studying the man at arms’ length.

“Yes… The Hippodrome pays well and offers food and lodging for the officials…” Nikodemos said, evidently pleased with himself, before adding in a low voice “… and if you can close your eyes on one or two little cheating tricks, your pockets are soon full…” This punctuated with a wink.

“How foul of you… But I know how much you wanted to work back at the Hippodrome… I’m happy that you succeeded…” Methodios told him sincerely.

Leading Methodios over to the tavern, where the maids had righted his table and were clearing the spilled wine, Nikodemos said “But we’re not here to talk about my fortunes… Come sit over here… Have some wine… I have news… Grave news…”

Sitting themselves down and ordering a new pitcher of wine, Nikodemos started to tell Methodios of the news that had made him send the letter.

The news related to Tarchaneiotes. He had come back to Constantinople, almost four months back, pleading for forgiveness from the Emperor for having been defeated by a numerically superior force of Turks, who killed all his men or took them prisoner, releasing him and few of his men to enable them to testify of the might of the Turks.

Nikodemos went on to tell of how Romanus Diogenes, himself having been defeated could not berate Tarchaneiotes but instead greeted him as a long-lost friend, even offering him a large estate on the Bosphorus for his loyalty to the Emperor.

But that was not all, another darker rumour said that Romanus’ defeat at Manzikert would soon be used against him by his political opponents, already sapping at his support and this with the help of Tarchaneiotes, the man mainly responsible for the debacle of Manzikert.

“This man is the Janus of old times come again” Methodios snarled. “He has two faces…”

“Yes but he still retains the favour of the Basileos… Your word or ours won’t carry much weight against his… From what I heard, he tells of how one of his junior officers has led him into a trap in exchange for Turkish riches and offer of protection… No need to tell you the name of that officer…”

“Curses !!” Methodios was taken aback. Not only his mission to warn the Emperor was a failure but he was now an outlaw, the man made responsible for the worst defeat the Empire had ever suffered. This was not right… Had God abandoned him ? He had never been a firm believer… His father had never converted to the True Faith, still believing in the Old Gods of the Norse… Lulled by these tall tales of battles between the Gods, of Midgard and Asgard, Methodios had never truly believed in the One God of the Orthodox faith…

Was he being punished now for his lack of faith ? If so, that God was surely blind if he could not tell right from wrong… Good from evil…

If no divine punishment befell Tarchaneiotes then it would be Methodios’ task in life to ascertain that the man’s fate lived up to his black deeds.

“Can you reach the others, Nikodemos ?” Methodios asked.

“Sure, they are all here in Constantinople… Working one craft or another… We could all meet here by sunrise tomorrow…”

“No… Not here… From what you tell me, I’m an outlaw… Though few men know my face, I stand out like the nose in the middle of the face… I won’t stand risk being recognized before I get to meet Tarchaneiotes face to face.”

“I know of a place outside the city walls by the Western Gate. On the road to Thessalonika, it is called the Greased Axle. The innkeeper is an old friend, a former charioteer by the name of Leukon.”

“Fine… Talk to the others… We’ll rendez-vous at the inn tomorrow at noon.”

Exchanging an accolade, the two men parted, Nikodemos remaining at the table and Methodios mingling with the afternoon crowds near the Hippodrome, heading for the Western Gate.

******

[_Tristan_]

Vengeance, sweet vengeance
Tarchaneiotes’ Estate, near the Bosphorus, April 18th 1072.

All of the men had been there at the inn. None had missed the chance of meeting with their comrades.
Methodios was overjoyed to see that these men had remained loyal to him. Most of them had fallen on hard times. Veterans of the Manzikert campaign were ill-considered in Constantinople these days…
Of them all, only Nikodemos seemed to have made a new life for himself… Methodios had been reluctant to drag him into what he had planned…

With the information provided by Nikodemos, Methodios had drafted a plan that he had presented to the men…

The plan had been simple enough : ride up to Tarchaneiotes’ estate and master his guards, confront the traitor and have him confess his sins. Then take him into custody and request an audience with the Emperor and denounce him for the fraud and the traitor he was.

All the men had adhered to it.

Now, they had left their horses tethered in a stand of trees and were hiding in the bushes across the main gate of the estate. The gates were closed and three guards in lamellar armour stood by the gate, two of them armed with spears, the last sporting a composite bow. Men similarly-equipped made rounds around the perimeter.

Night was slowly falling, the first stars appearing in the sky. The estate sprawled beneath them. It was located on a stretch of land which dropped a few hundred meters away to the waters of the Bosphorus straits. A road leading from Constantinople to some fishermen’s village ran before the gates.



The main building was two stories high and located at the back of a large walled courtyard. The wall on the Constantinople side higher than the wall on the seaward side, thus giving a view over the moonlit waters of the straits. A tower was erected along the seaward wall with a light shining from it, a beacon for the sailors plying the waters of the Dardanellian Sea. In the front part of the courtyard were located several outhouses where guards’ and servant quarters, stables and smithies were to be found. In the back, the wall enclosed a garden where several cypress trees could be seen waving in the slight breeze from the sea. Torches in sconces were distributed along the outer wall, casting a flickering light.

Between the hiding place of Methodios and his men and the estate’s gates was a flat expanse of ground strewn with bushes and boulders, not enough to provide cover. They would have to make a run for it.

According to plan, Antonios drew out his bow, fitting an arrow to the string and drawing it taut. At the same time, Adrastos hefted a javelin, drawing his arm back, his arm muscle bulging with the strain. At a sign from Methodios, both let loose at the same time, the others with Methodios in the lead making a rush for the gates. The arrow went through one of the guards’ throat while the javelin impacted the second guard, piercing his armour and nailing him to the gate. The last man stood rooted to the spot, seeing his two comrades struck down, and with a large party of men running at him with swords drawn.

Finally coming to his senses, the guard at the gate let out a cry. “A… Al… Alarm !!!” Turning around, he opened the small gate behind him and rushed through.
Antonios drew another arrow to his bow and let it fly at the man in the tower, the arrow piercing his lung, the man toppling over the rail to the courtyard below, preventing him from sounding the alarm bell dangling behind him in the tower.

Methodios’ men were only ten meters away and Nikolas, sprinting, smashed himself into the gate, preventing the man from latching it closed. The guard was sent reeling but soon regained his feet, unsheathing his sword in the same move and making a lunge at Nikolas. The squire evaded the sword stroke, prepared to make another evasive move… This proved unnecessary as a large thrown axe stuck from the man’s ribcage, courtesy of Bjarki…

While Methodios’men filed in through the gates, the alarm was raised in the estate and several of the guards and servants came out of their lodgings, latching on their armour and sword-belts. On the outside, Antonios’ arrows took out two more of the patrolling guards who ran to bring help to their comrades.

The courtyard erupted into pandemonium. The clash of metal on metal, the grunts of men, the cries of the wounded… Suddenly, Methodios spotted Tarchaneiotes at a balcony on the first story of the main building.

Surprise was painted on Tarchaneiotes’ face. Mouthing a “You”, he left the balcony.

In the courtyard, Methodios’ men were gaining ground. Bjarki had cleared a wide space around by swinging his large Danish axe in an arc. Sergios hurled a barrel towards three advancing guards, sending them flying like so many pins in a ball game. Others fought sword duels all around the courtyard. None of them had suffered more than slight cuts. Methodios hacked his way forward through the press of bodies, slashing left and right, blind to the suffering of the men he fell.

Finally, he emerged in the lobby of the building. He was greeted by a large marble statue of an unknown God (Is it Hermes or Ares ? he wondered). Everywhere the wealth of the former General was on display. Ancient vases of brown and black designs were nicely disposed into niches, marble columns delineated the passages into other rooms. Behind the monumental statue was found a small courtyard open to the sky where a fountain gurgled into a small pool.

Behind Methodios, Bjarki was keeping the door, intent on mowing down any man foolish enough to approach the whooshing edge of his axe.

“Traitor !! Show yourself !!” Methodios howled.

He ran through the passage ways of the large building. Opening doors after doors, all the rooms richly furnished, he searched the place, still finding no sign of Tarchaneiotes.

Finally reaching the back of the building, Methodios came upon a flight of stairs. On the highest steps, there stood Tarchaneiotes, a smirk upon his face. He had donned his helmet, leaving the lower mailed part unlatched. Over his tunic, he had put on a chainmail and his lamellar armour, complete with wrist guards and shin guards etched in gold. In his left hand, he bore a large round shield while his right gripped the hilt of a curved sword of Turkish design.

“You call me traitor but last I heard, it is not I who is an outlaw… It is not I who is rumoured to have sold his whole army to the Turks… I came home a hero… And where are you ? Penniless… Hunted…” said Tarchaneiotes, stepping slowly down the steps “What do you seek to accomplish here ? Vengeance ? For who ? For what ? What will you gain ? I tell you… You’ll gain nothing… You think you can best me… I doubt it… Should you succeed, there will be no rabbit hole deep enough to save you from the wrath of the Emperor… If I die, how will you prove that I am what you say I am ? And if I live, and you die, I’ll be the greatest hero of the Empire, my praise sung for eons…”

Methodios felt fury welling up inside him… So much of what the man said was true… What had he been trying to accomplish ? Vengeance…Only sweet vengeance… There was no lying to himself… He had been played a fool by a man he admired, a man he had sought to emulate in all things… Now he was here for only one thing : to get rid of the self-loathing he had felt since that fateful day in Cilicia.

“Now, I notice you look at my sword… A parting gift from my friend Al-Mulk… I made up a story for it… How I took it from the corpse of a Turkish general in the battle you made us lose through your treachery”…

Finally reaching the bottom of the steps, Tarchaneiotes assumed a fighting stance, his torso protected by the shield, his sword lifted high above his head, point forward.

“Now let’s see if you can get your revenge… Fight !!”

With a snarl, Tarchaneiotes charged into Methodios, his large buckler almost knocking his opponent down. The Turkish sword then swooped down and it took all of Methodios’ skill to parry it. Moving back, Methodios was forced to parry the thrusts and swings of the older man. Once or twice, he got nicked by the tip of the sword, blood running from the cuts. Finally regaining his balance, Methodios was able to counter the strokes and reply with his own but the shield was ably used by Tarchaneiotes, providing few openings for Methodios to wound him.

Blows fell from both sides, the swordsmen’s skills negating one another’s. Through the din of the swords clashing, Methodios perceived a change in the noise from the courtyard. Where before there had only been the noise of fighting, he could now hear calls and cries.

Too much occupied with deflecting the mighty blows of Tarchaneiotes, Methodios had no time to wonder about what was happening outside. He was committed… There was no turning back, now… It would either be him or his nemesis… His only regret should he lose his life here would be for the men he dragged along in his fall…

Still the blows rained down from both fighters, without one gaining the upper hand.

Suddenly, the booming voice of Bjarki broke through Methodios’ focus.

“Methodios… Varangians” was all he heard.

“What ?” Methodios asked, in a croaking, dry voice.

“Varangians !! Some guard must have escaped and reached the palace !!” Bjarki answered from the door… “We must go or we’re doomed !!”

“Then go… take the others with you… I’m not finished here...” Methodios barked, not taking his eyes off his adversary even for a blink.

A smile spread on Tarchaneiotes’ face “Listen to your man… Run… That’s all you ever do… Run… Like that day in the Turkish camp… You’ve never done anything else but run…”
Spurred by the words of the man, Methodios lashed viciously with his sword, raining blows after blows, his sword striking sparks from the General’s own, one master-stroke rending the shield in half, biting deep into the man’s arm.

Howling with pain, Tarchaneiotes wrenched the shield free from his arm, blood pouring heavily from the deep gash.

Clasping his sword in both hands, he struck a mighty blow, then another, the force of the blows wrenching Methodios’ grip on his sword, sending it flying near the pool.

“So now, traitor… How does it feel to be at my mercy ? I will make you beg for this” Tarchaneiotes said, showing the wound in his arm, all the while advancing on Methodios, until his sword point rested on his throat.

“Get on your knees and beg… Beg for your life…”

Before Methodios could answer or make a move, a large body impacted against Tarchaneiotes, sending him flying the two men wrestling on the ground.

Methodios noticed it was Bjarki. The man released the general, got to his feet and catching a stupefied Methodios by the arm led him to the courtyard. Bodies lay sprawled everywhere, though a single glance showed Methodios that none of them were any of his men.

“We must run, Methodios… The Varangians will be here soon… It is a fight we cannot win…” Bjarki said, running all the while dragging Methodios after him. Methodios’ men kept the guards at bay, thus creating a path through the courtyard to the gates.

Torn between his desire for vengeance and self-preservation, Methodios followed Bjarki grudgingly through the outer gates of the estate. Soon all of his men joined them and began to run with them towards the trees where their horses were tethered. From the corner of his eye, Methodios noticed a large company of men, coming out of a bend in the road… Varangians for sure… There was no mistaking the heavy armours or the large crescents of the Danish axes…

“To be hunted down by men that fought with my father, how much lower can I fall ?” Methodios wondered.

Mounting his horse, Methodios shot a last glance towards the estate. In front of the gates, there stood Tarchaneiotes, waving frantically to his men, sending them chasing after the runaways.

Turning his horse, Methodios sent him at a gallop down the road after his men, away from Tarchaneiotes, away from the Varangians, away from vengeance…

******

Coming soon "the Epilogue"

[_Tristan_]

Epilogue : A new hope
Thessalonika, March 2nd 1081

(written with permission from OK)

(Senate opens on June 3rd, 1081)

Methodios walked out of the merchant’s house, the purse full of silver coins bouncing in his hand. Crossing the market of Thessalonika, he reflected upon the last months. How many trains had he escorted with his men ? Crossing from the Aegean coast to the Adriatic, from Thessalonika to Dyrrakhion (or Durazzo as the Italians liked to call it.)… So many he couldn’t quite remember…

Anyway, better that than serving garrison duty as they had done for some time in Corinth or worse still serving as mercenaries, helping petty regional rulers to settle their land disputes with their neighbours by shedding the blood of their peasants…

“How low we have fallen ? From being part of one of the most elite units of the Empire’s army to being outcasts in our own country ?” Methodios thought, filled with gloom. Still, he and his men remained faithful to the Empire… Their loyalty had always been and would always remain to the Emperor, whatever wrongs had been done to them…

Since that fateful night at Tarchaneiotes’ estate almost nine years ago now, they had been on the run, going from one employer to the next, always vigilant, never settling too long in one place…

Through the years that had passed, the Empire had known upheavals as well. Romanus, the Basileos captured at Manzikert, had been deposed by the Doukas in the months following Methodios’ raid on Tarchaneiotes’ estate. Rumour had it that he had been tortured, blinded and had died in exile not long after. Methodios felt sorry for him. He had also been a victim of Tarchaneiotes’ scheming with the Turks.

Michael Doukas had gained the throne, a puppet of his uncle before becoming that of his minister of finance. Together, they indulged on luxury spending, withdrawing funds from the army coffers. Disgruntled soldiers led to several rebellions and allowed Italian forays on what was once Byzantine soil.

Finally, General Nikephoros Botaneiates rebelled and gained access to the throne, evicting the Doukas from power, and being crowned as Nikephoros III. But in doing this, and to put down the rebellions in the Balkans and in Anatolia, he had become reliant upon Aleksios Komnenos, great general and leader of men.

Last year, with the support of the Doukas family, Aleksios managed a coup and deposed Nikephoros III.

All these political upheavals meant nothing to Methodios. He was and remained an outlaw, his name anathema due to Tarchaneiotes’ accusations, whoever sat on the throne of the Basileos.

Methodios had remained in contact with Nikodemos. His old friend had remained in Constantinople, working at the Hippodrome. From him, he had heard that Tarchaneiotes had disappeared in the wake of his sponsor being deposed, selling his assets and vanishing. With him gone, there was no way to prove his innocence and erase the shame associated with his name.

Chasing these thoughts from his mind, Methodios joined his men by their fire campfire, on the outskirts of the market, one of many camps catering to the merchants’ guards.

Exchanging greetings with them and tossing the purse to Nikolas, in charge of the keeping of the group finances, he sat down to share their lunch.

Suddenly, a deep silence fell over the market. Worried glances in the eyes of his men, and seeing most of them discreetly going for their weapons, Methodios turned to look in the direction of their gaze.

He immediately understood why silence had fallen upon the market and the guards’ camps. A large contingent of Varangians was making a beeline through the stalls towards Methodios and his men.

They were lead by one of the largest man Methodios had ever seen, even bigger than him. The man carried an air of authority about him.
“Not a good sign” Methodios mused.

Finally stopping a few meters from Methodios, the captain took a few step forward of his men.

“Methodios Tagaris ?” he asked in a deep commanding voice.

“Who is asking ?” Bjarki answered, before Methodios could say a word.

“Not talking to you, ulfhednar…” answered the man, glowering.

“I am Methodios Tagaris” intervened Methodios, standing up to face the man, before Bjarki threw himself at the man. “And I will ask the same question : Who is asking ?” Putting a brave face on but feeling a hard lump settling in his stomach thinking “Is it how this is supposed to end ? Imprisoned ? Tortured ? Executed ?”

Seemingly reading, Methodios’ doubts, the man’s face softened “I am Harald Sigurdsson, captain of the Imperial Guard to Basileos Aleksios Komnenos. And I am not here to arrest you, be at ease.”

Methodios heard a collective sigh from the men gathered behind him, tension seemingly going away, grip on weapons loosening.

“Would you walk with me, Topoteretes ?” Harald asked, using Methodios’ military rank.

“Of course”, Methodios answered, wondering why the Captain of the Imperial Guard would have been sent to him, for this was no coincidence.

Walking away from the market and the glances of the assembled populace, Sigurdsson and Methodios walked down to the stream that run down from the market. Walking along the banks, the noise of the running water soothing Methodios’ nerves, Sigurdsson began to explain.

“I knew your father. We served together in many campaigns. He was a great fighter and I see much of Leif in you. He was not dubbed “The Tiger” for nothing. Though your name sounds more Greek, a gift he made to your mother, I feel there is a tiger in you also. That tiger is caged right now. I hope to unleash it. But not to strike blindly, out of rage, but to strike on orders. The highest orders that can be, the orders of the Basileos.” Letting that sink in, Sigurdsson walked a few pace in silence.

“But I’m an outlaw… I’m the man despised for having betrayed half of our army during the Manzikert campaign.” Methodios answered.

“I have put a word in for you with the Basileos. I cannot believe the lies spread about you. I pride myself on being a good reader of men and so does our Basileos. You were nothing but a scapegoat in what was the failing of a whole nation. Our Basileos is ready to grant you his pardon.”

“From what I know of our rulers, there must be a price attached to that” Methodios asked, warily.

“Yes,” answered Sigurdsson, with a thin smile “a small price… As you may know the Basileos is new to the Throne. Those last years have seen many political upheavals and the Basileos doesn’t want to be another victim of those upheavals. To prevent such a thing, he intends on renewing the old Senate… For that he needs Senators… Many of the old ones died either at Manzikert or in the rebellions since then. Most of the new Senators still have milk coming out of their noses, though some show promise. Our Basileos intends to make our Empire as great as it was, stretching from one horizon to the other, the sun never setting over it…For that he will also need generals… Your name came up as a man of valour however stained your name may be… Your feats on the battlegrounds of the Empire have not gone totally unnoticed… I spoke in your favour… What do you say ? Will you join us in our fight to make our Empire great once again ?”

Methodios pondered the question, keeping on walking along the stream. Sigurdsson kept silent.

“What of my men ?” asked Methodios. “What will become of them ?”

“Forgiven, as you are. Keep them in you employ as your bodyguard or send them away it doesn’t make a difference…”

Methodios pondered his options. A life of honour but a life of danger both visible and hidden or a life of dishonour but no less dangerous…

“I thankfully accept the Basileos’ offer. I would be a fool to refuse the honour that represents.” Methodios answered.

“Fine… I had no doubt you would accept. Here is some gold to see to your equipment and that of your men.” said Sigurdsson tossing a heavy leather pouch to Methodios. “It wouldn’t do for a Senator to appear in the Magnaura dressed as a peasant, no ?” Sigurdsson said with a hearty laugh. “Now, you are to report to the Senate in three months’ time, to the day… That will be the opening of the Senate session. Be there… Strator”.

With these final words, Sigurdsson clasped Methodios’ arm and saluted fist to heart.

Then he turned and walked towards his waiting men, leaving Methodios by the stream, not casting a single glance back.

******