Chapter 65
Cut and Run
“That was the noseless swindler, did you use the heckle Zinth composed?”
Pons held the shaggy horse's bridle and led wordlessly over the fallow field and back to the road which led to the gates of Nicea. In the cart lay the body of Renier’s best friend. Heart of this revolt - this endeavor - the True Romans for the Protection of Emperor Alexios League. Theodore’s hemet was still on and the face plate remained down. Pons did not want to look him in the face yet. Too damn young. Both of them.
After many paces of brooding silence Cyn pressed on, “What was said? Who are these fellows?”
“He is beyond cunning. He is not to be underestimated. He plays one battle on the field and another in the mind.”
“Eh?”
“He offers a vision of Hell. Their mother - naked and shamed on a battering cock. They cry and sob. Now will come dinner and a vision of Heaven. They will grovel at his feet.”
“Who?”
“The Angelos brothers.”
“I do not follow. Who are the soldiers behind us, are they really the Emperor’s sons?”
“Si, I suppose so. It is a hostage swap. Try to keep up.”
“What will happen?”
They marched on. Pons gave no reply and muttered to himself. He had done something to his shoulder going over the wall. Now that the rush of battle and the tension with the Emperor had abated his upper arm seemed on fire. Once through the gates and into the city, he bellowed for the head watchman of the gate. The Emperor’s sons were given over to his care. Let the Niceans deal with them.
He needed a moment to think, but there was much to be done. Someone was sent to retrieve the Angelos brothers. A Turkopole wanted his horse returned to him. The body needed to be stripped of its armor and turned over to a priest. Where was a priest? In the way when not wanted - absent when needed. The cart was led to the nearest church. Pons and the Turkopole lay out the body on the steps. The Turkopole took his horse. Someone else took the cart. Pons began to unstrap the armor - worth fortune in the west - was there even a point in keeping it?
The dinner invitation could have only two consequences.
Either the fight would go on. If the enemy had any mangonels or other hurling artillery remaining after last night’s bonfire they would have to be supplied from the rear. Andronikos would need to storm the walls in a serious effort requiring well led infantry equipped with ladders and ropes with grappling hooks. Troops shielded by mantlets. Kill or be killed. Fine. So be it. What a mercenary was paid to do.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Or the Angelos brothers would surrender.
Where did that leave a Latin sellsword?
Discretion, distance, disappearance - if he had any sense. Pons was about to tell Cyn to gather his belongings and prepare for a quick departure, but where had he gone?
A nervous elderly priest finally appeared to see about the dead body on the steps of his church. Pons stifled a yawn and explained that the final rites needed to be performed and the nobleman’s interment needed to be organized. As for the armor…
“Store this somewhere safe. I need to consult his, how do you say it? The document where you leave your property? Will? Testament?”
“Diatheke?”
“Si, whatever. Hold the armor and saddle safe here until we consult that parchment, understand?” Pons gently removed the nobleman’s helmet. His eyes were still open, as if he could spring back to life again - “See Uncle, I told you I would be back directly.”
The priest held out his hand as if expecting an offering. Pons handed him the broken feather from the exotic bird and paid him no further heed. He walked off flexing his shoulder. Rain speckled down.
What to do? He made his way from the church back to the barracks room he and Cyn had been sharing since they had added their expertise to the cause. Had it seemed promising at first, or had it seemed like the only available chariot on the track? Theodore Kantakouzenos had been paying Pons and Cy the pricy sum of a golden hyperpyron per tenday. Each. Andronikos had been right about that. This was more than the other mercenaries were making - there was a squad of Genoese pikemen manning the east wall - outlaws facing hanging at home, fighting under a bastard son of a bastard son of one of the Embriaco clan, plus the Turcopole light cavalry. Pons felt he and Cyn were worth every obol. They had fought off an entire sortie practically by themselves. Rescued the domina. Led the raid on the catapults the night before. Yawn. Christ he was tired.
Perhaps it would be best to slip away in the night. Cut the rope attached to the anchor and let the tide carry them out to sea. A prudent man would be considering escape as a possibility. Pons was prudent.
He neatly packed his belongings. His sword was missing, but he could find another. One axe was covered in blood and his right hand was spattered with it as well. He needed a wash. His shoulder pained him. Where the hell was Cyn? They needed to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Nothing to do but wait until the Angelos brothers returned and try to read their faces. They would probably lie if asked directly. Might as well clean up.
Pons took an indirect route to the baths and wandered along the shore of Lake Askania. Rowboats lay hull up, shore birds waded in the mud. They did not mind as the rain fell heavier now. Nicea’s baths, smaller than those in the capital, still functined. He scrubbed off the blood with lye soap in the cold pool before gently lowering himself into the hot caldarium pool. The warm water soothed his aching back, shoulder, and arm. He breathed deeply. What had he done to it? Not getting any younger. A man did not need to take a wound to be wounded.
Hadn’t been the proper time for the heckle.
Pons fell asleep.