Chapter 37

A Brief Tavern Brawl

Trying as best as possible to keep out of the wind and the rain Cyn followed Nestor with Pons beside him. Together they left the Hippodrome behind them and dodged to the left at the Melion and followed the mese half a kilometer west to the forum of Constantine. It was impossible for Cyn not to notice the men following - no doubt sent out by the bet-makers.

Beyond the forum to the north they tucked into the Golden Eel. Greeting their hosts with cheery smiles, and tossing them an entire hyperpyron, Pons moved to a long table at the back of the common room. “Landlady to fetch a jar of wine and fry up eels on a trestle of flat bread,” he called. Switching to the language of Oc he said to Cyn “Fetch your arbalest, have it loaded, and get ready for trouble. We were followed.”

“I counted four.”

“As did I.”

When Cyn returned to the common room he pretended to be taking a rock out of his boot while he cranked his arbalest under the table, cocked it, slipped a bolt into the notch and fitted the shaft to the groove. Placing it on the table, he then draped his wet cloak on top of it to dry.

At that moment four men ducked under the entrance awning. They briefly scoured the room and fixed their eyes upon them. Stares turned to glares. Considering Nestor to be of no account, and knowing the Latins had wealth, glares turned to sneers.

The landlady began forward with a jug of wine for the table, but the largest of the men stopped her, took the jug from her hand, and helped himself to a draught. He then handed the jug to the other men to share. Sneers turned to insults. They spoke of how Latins had pig shit between their toes even when their boots were on. And that Latins were going to burn in Hell for their heresies. A bald one spoke quickly, loudly, and at length. Cyn couldn’t follow the Greek but he understood the man disliked Franks and Hungarians as well. Pons had drawn his dirk and, studiously ignoring the insults, began to clean his fingernails with the tip of the blade. Daring them.

The largest of the group, a barrel-chested brute with a knot of curly hair, became more agitated than the others. He pointed his finger at Pons and continued with a loud mouth. He asked his friends, “Did we not force the Latins out in March? And here we are, summer not even over, and they are crawling back into the city and taking our coin. Well, by Christos, if they are going to return, then they will bloody well have to pay tribute. They don’t have a walled quarter of the city to hide behind now, do they? Hey you, little man, what are you doing here in our city anyway?”

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“Yeah, what are you doing here?” his comrades echoed.

Pons leaned back from his grooming. “I’m here to fuck your mother.”

“Well,” thought Cyn, “that ought to get things moving.” He clasped the cloak on the table, ready to fling it aside and shoot. The three men made hooting noises to urge on their large friend. “Kick his teeth out, Andros.” one shouted. Andros glared at Pons and slowly sauntered over to their table at the back of the tavern. The other patrons picked up their drinks and edged over to the walls to keep out of the way of what was certain to come. Andros kept his eyes on the dirk which the old mercenary held nonchalantly in his hand.

The attack, when it came, was so fast even Cyn, who was expecting it, was completely surprised. The barrel-chested man had been moving towards Pons’ side, and had been about to spit some insult, when Pons’ foot shot out and kicked the wooden bench which stood beside the table. The bench hit the Greek below his knees and he lost his balance. At that same instant Pons’ right hand shot up, tangled itself in the man’s curly hair, and smashed his forehead on to the edge of the table. A solid ‘thunk’ reverberated in the room. The big man dropped, Cyn thought, like a turd from a tall horse’s ass.

Pons let the inert body drop to the floor. He returned to cleaning his nails. The three others by the door were stunned. Calmly Pons said, “One of you fellows go and get your boss.” He prodded the big man on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Obviously this fellow is not him.”

Cyn pulled his cloak off the table to reveal the crossbow. They could see the broad headed quarrel sitting in the groove. They glared but held their ground.

“Go get Fat George,” the bald man near the entrance ordered the youngest of his companions. The fellow darted off. The bald man and his remaining friend, a pock-faced man with a beard, continued to stare at Pons and Cyn.

On the floor Andros was groaning as he began to regain consciousness. Pons reached down and grabbed the burly man by the tunic. He was still groggy from the blow to the head. Pons sat him on the bench and waved for a bowl of wine. “That is truly gonna leave a lump,” he commiserated. “Good thing you didn’t break the skin or it would bleed like a sonofabitch.”

The man crossed his arms on the table and slumped his head forward, wavering in and out of awareness. The host's wife brought the wine and he took a drink, coughed a bit, and lay his head gently on the table.

“Poor fellow,” commented Cyn. “Put your head between your knees. Sometimes that helps.”

“It’s all right, he’s a tough one. He can take a shot or two, can’t ya?”

The man smiled shyly at them. After what appeared to be careful deliberation he slowly and mumbled, “Thanks for the wine. Who are you? I don’t like eels so much. I like roasted chicken.” He hung his head low waiting for his vision to steady.

“Jesus Pons, you have rung his bell so hard he is ready for dinner.”