Chapter 10
The Journey East
Marco Dandalo knew a horse trader in Dyrrachium who set Pons and Cyn up with a pair of sturdy horses and a couple of mules. Pons bought from the man to be polite to Marco even though he thought he could have gotten a better deal on his own with another trader in the market. Anyway, his Greek was rusty and he knew it would be a few weeks to get his tongue and ear back into shape. The big Venetian bade the two mercenaries farewell and they wished one another luck in their ventures.
Before leaving Montferrat Marius had told Pons of the old Roman road, the Via Egnatia, which he had traversed - not too bad near the towns and cities, but once out into the middle of nowhere it turned to mud and horse shit in places. The first day they rode south and east, the road passing farms and cottages, churches, and orchards. Once during the morning they passed a stone which had a number carved into it. DCCXXXV.
“What is it?” Cyn asked.
“It’s a milestone. There used to be one of these stones every mile all the way to Constantinople. But sometimes people take them. Keep your eyes open, you’ll see more of them.”
“What’s the writin’ on it mean?”
“It means,” Pons grumbled, “We’ve got a long way to go?”
They found an inn and a town at the end of their first day’s journey. Dinner was fresh bread dipped in olive oil, roasted lamb, olives, baked onions, and honey pottage. One thing about Pons, thought Cyn, he does like to live well on the road.
“Eat up. The climb gets worse tomorrow.” The old capo tossed back his wine and broke another loaf of bread.
He was right. The next day saw clouds, wind, and spitting rain. It was not a good day for travel. A stone bridge crossed the Genusus river but shortly after the road began to disappear for stretches. They slipped in mud and had to lead the horses where floods had washed out sections. They encountered few travelers in the morning and none in the afternoon save for a strange monk wearing mud spattered black robes. He carried an enormous wooden cross which Cyn guessed must have weighed almost as much as the man himself. The monk staggered along the cobbled road with his burden and Pons asked him, in several languages, how far the next hostel was, but the monk spoke no language that could be understood. The only word they could make out was ‘Tirce.’ But whether he meant the hostel lay three milestones or three hours of travel away, Cyn could not tell. Late afternoon wore on to evening and the road climbed the Candaviae mountains. They had not encountered any buildings, not even a shepherd’s croft, for some while. Perhaps the monk had been invoking the Holy Trinity, Cyn thought.
It was near nightfall when they finally arrived at a town with a ruined fort which stood at a crossroads. Pons’ horse threw a shoe while they were drawing into the town and it was too dark and rainy to find it. They first banged on the door of a stable where an acne covered youth quartered the mules and horses. A smith assured them he would re-shoe the horse first thing in the morning after his forge was lit. They found a warm inn where a grubby child was sent to fetch a cobbler to see to Pons’ boot, for both horse and rider needed mending. The tavern keeper’s teenage daughter brought them wine, soup, and bread. The two men wrapped up in blankets and fell asleep on benches beside the fire.
It was cloudy and threatened rain in the morning and Pons said he would be damned if he’d travel out again this day. Shortly after making this pronouncement, however, the sun broke through. The innkeeper, a friendly sort, asked if Pons would like to go fishing with him at a nearby stream. Pons did. Taking a large skin of wine each, they set out. Cyn spent the day lazing about. In the morning he set up a few targets and taught some local kids how to shoot a crossbow. In the afternoon he managed to coax the tavern keeper’s daughter into the hayrick. In the evening Pons and their host returned with a basket of brown trout. Dinner was excellent.
The next day under fair skies they climbed to the beautiful clear waters of Lake Ohrid. The road led east along the shore past villages, fields, and monasteries. As evening fell they reached a city with formidable walls on the shore of the lake. They found an inn, ate well again, and went to bed early.
Setting off again shortly after dawn, they made their way across the highlands. The weather remained clement and clear, and after a few days of rough country, they began to descend to rich pasture land. More travelers passed them, merchants and farmers, priests and post horses. From time to time they were forced to pause as flocks of sheep were driven along the road. They traveled eastward with the morning sun on their faces and the afternoon sun on their backs.
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One day, stopping for a rest late in the afternoon, they spotted a group of teenage boys. The youths had two fine horses harnessed to a rickety chariot and the oldest was about to run them through their paces. With a practiced flick of the reins wrapped around his wrists, he set the team to canter around on a dusty track which looked to have been trampled out to the traditional size. The driver flicked his reins again and the horses burst into a run, the chariot - bouncing and slewing over the ruts in the oval path. The youth, his legs braced, teeth clenched, and forearms straining, circled the long track twice. His friends whooped and cheered him on. As he went into a turn the chariot’s right wheel dug into a soft patch and the car began to tip. In an instant the driver disentangled his hands from the reins and sprang clear. The chariot flipped onto its side and was dragged for a short distance before coming to rest. The driver lay on the track with his wind knocked out. His chums came running to check on his condition.
Pons calmed the horses who appeared used to the treatment, while Cyn flipped the chariot onto its wheels again. The light wooden frame was bound with wicker and suffered no damage from the crash. The driver rose to his feet, brushed the dust off his clothes and hair.
Cyn gave him a grin. “That,” he said in his limited Greek, “Looked like fun.”
“Not fun,” the youth replied. “It is serious competition.”
“In a serious competition you would have wanted to move off the track a little faster. Before the next chariot runs you over.” Pons handed over the reins.
The boy smiled and took them. He and his friends were the sons of workers on a great estate nearby. They were delighted to hear Pons and Cyn were traveling to Constantinople.
“One day soon Honor here will be pulling in the great Hippodrome.” The boy scratched the jaw of a powerful chestnut mare. “My father is the stable master and he says our lord has sold her. She’ll be off to glory soon, won’t you girl? Perhaps my brother will race her, he drives for the Blues.”
Pons was impressed. “Your brother is a charioteer? In the capital? He must be good.”
“He is. He is the best. When you go to the races you must place a wager on him. He will make you much money.”
“What name does he race under?” Pons asked.
“Alexander the Great. Everyone knows him.”
“Alexander the Great. That is a big name to live up to.”
“He had to be called that. His name is Alexander and this place is called Pella. Alexander’s city was once here.”
“Must have been a long time ago.” Cyn muttered as he glanced around the track. The only things he could see nearby were a few huts for the estate’s peasants and a long abandoned wooden fort which he thought he could put his foot through if he gave it a good kick.
The boys invited the two strangers back to their cottage on the estate. They assured them their mother and father would not mind. Indeed they were warmly welcomed. Cyn and the boys rubbed down the horses while Pons met their father, the estate’s stablemaster. Cyn showed the boys his crossbows and when they were finished with the horses, they set off to a nearby pasture to shoot at rabbits while they awaited dinner. Pons and the stablemaster visited, chatting about the state of the world over a plate of olives and an amphora of wine. Presently the hunters returned with a nice brace of coney. One of the hares had been killed, the boys recounted, at extreme long distance - hundreds of paces, while in full flight, darting to and fro, trying to reach a thicket of brambles. The quarrel had fallen almost vertically and had severed the rodent’s spine. Cyn looked outrageously pleased with himself, but admitted it was pure luck. Later that night they ate bread with oil and rabbit stew. When Cyn confessed in his broken Greek he had never watched a chariot race, the stablemaster and his sons explained all he should be looking for when he finally did attend.
The next morning, as they were leaving, the stablemaster’s wife asked them to seek out her son when they reached the capital and give him all their love. A teen-aged sister of the boys, who had stared shyly at Cyn all the previous evening, came forward. She gave Pons a braid of her hair pinned with a pretty comb she had whittled herself and asked if he would give it to her brother. They promised they would and set off with warm goodbyes.
Long before they came down to the city of Thessaloniki they could smell the sea in the air again. They had crossed the Greek peninsula from the Adriatic to the Aegean. They spent one night at a prosperous inn, and on the following day made some inquiries regarding the Caesar Ionnes.
Two years earlier, when Renier wed Maria Born-to-the-Purple, he had been granted Thessaloniki as a fief along with the title Caesar. The title was an honorific which, while still prestigious and befitted his new status as Emperor Manuel’s son-in-law, did not include an Imperial office. The Byzantines also gave him a new name, calling him Ionnes in Greek, because Renier was too cumbersome and foreign sounding to their ears. Renier had never once visited the city he received as his wife’s dowry and its governance was left to bureaucrats appointed by the Emperor. A few coins put into a few purses gained Pons and Cyn a meeting with the learned Archbishop, Eustathius. He told Pons new officials had recently arrived with instructions that henceforth all city revenue was to flow directly into Imperial coffers. No mention at all had come from the capital regarding the death of the Caesar Ionnes. He had simply ceased to exist and no one with any sense was asking questions as to how or why. At Thessaloniki they learned nothing. As the weather was fine, they wasted no time and resumed their journey along the Via Egnatia, which was much more well traveled leading on to the capital.