The Dragon (The Bloody Hand Saga Book 7) by David Pilling

Author:David Pilling [Pilling, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-05-05T00:00:00+00:00

17.

When I rose the morning after the banquet, I had no notion of what lay ahead. If I had, I would have grabbed the nearest horse and ridden as far and as fast as I could, beyond the frontier of that benighted Empire, never to return.

Instead I crawled out of bed, like any other morning, yawning and scratching myself and cursing my sore head. I gulped down some bread and bacon, drank a little small beer, dressed, strapped on my armour. Another battle lay ahead. Just another battle.

Alexios had agreed terms with Kajura; if God gave us victory over the Pechenegs, he had promised to give them half the plunder. They also had his permission to chase the fleeing enemy for three days, or to go wherever they wished for ten whole days. In other words, they had licence to roam over imperial lands in that time, and God help any Roman citizens they encountered.

A heavy price to pay, but Alexios had no choice. Kajura knew that full well, and exploited his advantage for all it was worth. A madman, certainly, but a reasoning one.

The army moved out at dawn. Alexios had no intention of staying at Ezel, with his back to the sea. His scouts reported the enemy gathered in force in a great valley called Levounion, beyond the river to the north. I had never heard of this place. It has echoed in my nightmares ever since.

Kajura sent out his horse-archers to skirmish with the Pechenegs. While they kept the enemy busy, Alexios ordered his engineers to build a pontooon bridge over the river. It was done quickly, by binding boats together with long planks. Alexios and his chief officers stood at the river's edge, anxiously watching the army cross over. The Emperor had drilled his army well. First the divisions of infantry, then the cavalry, followed by baggage wagons and sumpter mules. No fuss, no confusion.

My own regiment crossed over, two by two, behind the Franks. Five hundred Latin mercenary knights, led by the Count of Flanders, recently returned from the Holy Land. A proud little man, upright as a lance in the saddle, one fist planted on his hip, still wearing the white cross stitched to his tunic. I looked on the Latins with suspicion, remembering their fatal ill-discipline on Chios.

"Boneheads," I remarked to my lieutenant, Basil. "Alexios had better keep them on a tight rein, otherwise they will gallop off and leave a great hole in the line."

"Yes, sir," Basil grunted obediently. He never disagreed with me, or seldom spoke at all, except to bark orders. Trustworthy and competent, but damned dull company. I missed Constantine, and wondered what had become of him. And Elene. Occasionally I glanced south, in the direction of Chios. I pictured their rotting heads, spiked over the gates of the fort, gazing sightlessly over the deep blue Aegean.

Bile rose to my throat. I leaned over and puked up my breakfast, into the river. Basil looked on impassively. I could guess at his thoughts.

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