The Byzantine Wager
Prologue
“Christos.” said Pons, “It makes you wonder, no?”
“Dudn’t what make you wonder?” Cyn replied. Cyn was sharpening Pons’ new sword and he wasn’t happy about the heat. “Bollocks, it is hot out here.”
“This… right here.” Pons shaded his eyes from the fierce sun and surveyed his surroundings. “A dynasty… ending right in front of our eyes.”
Cyn looked out at the “this” to which Pons was referring. The Hippodrome of Constantinople, which at noon on this scorching hot September day, was only starting to fill. There was not going to be any chariot racing in the stadium today and the populace knew it. It had been a restless couple of nights in the greatest city in Christendom. Rumor had been rife. Talk of swift riders bearing messages of warning, the elite Varangian guard being summoned to the palace in force, entire noble families disappearing overnight, murder and treason in the dark. Some said an invading army was less than a day’s march from the city. Some said they had personally witnessed the Emperor himself, the Basileus, Augustus over all, shaved and humiliated on the back of a mangy camel, being pelted by dung, stones, and garbage, as he was paraded around the market. Some said there was already a new emperor. For two days this had gone on. Those who had the means were already on their way out of the capital until things had settled down.
Today there was a trickle of people slowly gathering at the Hippodrome. It hadn’t been announced, criers had not gone out to summon a crowd, but still somehow word got around as it always did:
“Something is happening at the Hippodrome.”
“Daniel saw soldiers leading a prisoner.”
“Perhaps there is going to be an execution.”
Gradually a small crowd of the curious and bored, donning wide brimmed hats to shade themselves, had begun to file into the vast space of the chariot circuit. Some were in the stands, but many came right onto the track and made their dusty way around the stadium to where the imperial box, the kathisma, came into view.
This was where Pons and Cyn were waiting with their captive. Cyn, the younger of the two, was a broad shouldered man in his late twenties. He sat on the stone railing of the box with his legs dangling over the seating below, looking out over the racetrack, as he carefully ran a whetstone along the edge of a sword. “‘Dynasty ending?’ Some new rich family will be sleeping in the palace tonight, is that what you mean?” The sword, which was already keen, had a slight curve along the blade. “Kinda looks like one of these Saracen’s swords.” Cyn said idly, “Only not so curvy. Not really a long sword, not really a scimitar.”
“Mind you, pay particular attention to the point.” Pons ordered. Pons was a small man in his, perhaps, late fifties - it was hard to tell his age. The grizzled veteran’s face carried the look of many hard campaign seasons.
“Si, don’t you worry,” Cyn replied. “I’ll get this shank good and sharp for ya.” It needed to be sharp. There was money riding on it.
Pons was busy tying two stout lengths of rope around the ankles of the prisoner at his feet. The ropes were in turn attached to pulleys on the tops of two nearby columns. In a few moments they were going to hoist the man upside down and spread eagled into the air.
“Water,” the prisoner croaked, “Please, for the love of Jesus, some water.”
Cyn and Pons ignored him. They were getting good at ignoring him. He had been whining for three days - although, in all fairness, they had been three miserable days for him. Now it was nearing the end, and Cyn thought it was just as well. The poor fellow was not looking well at all.
The captive, Andronikos, was sixty-seven years old, and three days ago he could have easily passed for fifty. His long forked beard and leonine mane of hair had been shaved off, or more accurately, hacked off, by a mob, and none too gently. Tufts continued to sprout from some parts of his pate alongside scabs starting to form over the scalp abrasions where the people doing the cutting had slipped or been jostled. Three days ago he had been Emperor of the Romans, the Equal of the Apostles, ruler of the greatest city on Earth. Today he was going to die publicly and horribly. Once he had been the most handsome and charming man in the empire, and had been able to seduce princesses (frequently his own relatives) from here to the Holy Land. Now one eye had been gouged from its socket and his face was raw and blistered from where a prostitute had scalded him with a pot of boiling water. Cyn had the distinct impression that the whore and Andronikos had some history.
“Water… Aqua … I beg you…” Andronikos rasped again.
“Oh the poor thing, he is dying of thirst over here, Pons,” Cyn called out with feigned sincerity. “Can I please get him a tiny drink of water?”
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“No. Fuck him.” replied Pons.
“Sorry, I tried.” Cyn gave a sheepish shrug towards the emperor’s one remaining eye. In fact Cyn was quite thirsty himself. Earlier he had been drinking some quality wine, to which he had helped himself, at the palace. It was wonderful stuff, but on a day this hot it was only serving to leave a dry sour taste in his mouth.
“I’m thirsty too, Pons.” Cyn complained. He tried spitting on the whetstone again, but could hardly summon any saliva. “Jesu, it is roasting out here,” Cyn thought again for the hundredth time. “I honestly think this is the hottest day I’ve ever seen in my life,” he grumbled.
“Reminds me of when I was on pilgrimage with Margrave Guilhem at the siege of Damascus. It was plenty hot then too, and the dust… but I grant you today is hotter than Hell.”
“There has to be a fountain around here somewhere. Maybe I’ll go and look.”
“Be patient,” Pons was having difficulty adjusting the lengths of the ropes on Andronikos’ ankles. Perspiration kept dripping in his eyes. “If his Imperial Highness Basilius Isaac would hurry up and get his arse here we could get this over with and be off to some cool cellar to drink away the afternoon. What is taking him so long?”
The “this” Pons was referring to now was the wager. He and an enormous Venetian, Marco Dandolo, were going to hang the former emperor upside down and run him through with their swords. Whomever’s sword penetrated him the most deeply would win fifty gold hyperpyron as a prize from Isaac, the new Emperor.
Pons had carefully chosen this particular sword earlier. He had made the short walk to the palace of the Bull and the Lion and spent a long moment in the armory of the Imperial bodyguards trying to select the exact right one. He tested the weight, balance, and steel of several before selecting the one Cyn was now sharpening. While Pons was choosing his blade, Cyn, with the help of the fisherman’s son, had been rigging the pulleys to the tops of the columns which flanked the kasthima, the Imperial viewing box. Fortunately for Cyn, the fisherman’s son could climb like a chipmunk, and as a result, he did all of the high work while Cyn handled the ropes. When the task was completed, they sent the fisherman’s son off to find out what was keeping His Imperial Highness Basilius Isaac so long.
“When the boy comes back, we’ll send him to get some water.” Cyn reached into his pocket and his hand closed around three hard candies each about the size of a walnut. They had been sitting in a bowl in the palace and he had scooped them up when he had looted the wine. He popped one of the cloudy yellow sweetmeats into his mouth. It tasted like a sugary lemon. He sucked on it and ran it back and forth around his teeth. Cyn’s teeth were surprisingly good for a man of twenty-six. However, his judgment teeth had recently come in the back of his mouth, and they were causing him pain. Praying to Saint Appolonia to end his toothache was not helping, nor was the heat. The lemon drop wasn’t quenching his thirst, but some saliva was forming.
“Does ‘er want a sweetie?” Cyn said tauntingly to Andronikos. He held the candy in front of the Emperor’s mouth. Androkikos lay in a heap. His breath on Cyn’s hand came in ragged gasps.
“Cyn if you give that child-rapist a sweetmeat, I’ll run the sword through you as well.” Pons looked at him sternly and pulled a knot tight in the rope.
“Damn heat. Damn teeth.” Cyn complained again. He looked Andronikos in the remaining eye, and then turned to Pons. “I know why blessed St. Appolionia isn’t listening to my prayers and ending this toothache. It’s because we’re doing murder. She ain’t goin’ to listen to the prayers of some man doin’ murder, not when some honest soul with a toothache in Milan or London or somewhere is prayin’ as well.”
“It’s not murder.” Pons said.
“Well, I’m pretty sure we’re going to kill this bugger… and we are not in a battle… so that makes it murder, dudn’t it?”
“It’s an execution.”
“Oh… right.” Cyn rubbed his jaw. “Do executioners need to confess to a priest?”
Pons paused. He was a mercenary captain and didn’t concern himself with either law or theology. “Dunno. Couldn’t hurt. Never does any harm to go to confession.”
“Well then I think I will confess. Once I’m shriven I bet St. Apollonia will hear my prayers and stop my jaw from aching. What kind of penance do you think I’ll have to do for killing an emperor? More than a couple of rosaries I wager.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. You’re not the one swinging the sword after all.”
“And why is that?” asked Cyn a bit petulantly. “Why does Marco Dondalo get a chance at all the gold? He has only just arrived. I’ve been stalking this cunis with you for years. How is it I am not allowed a stab?”
“Because this cunis took all Marco had - his family, his trading house, everything. What has he taken from you? It may be I stick him to the hilt and win the money, but even so - Dondalo will be grateful I gave him this chance. Forever. And not only him - his entire clan.”
“What do you need from the Venetians?”
“Nothing, but what is wrong with having a little gratitude in the saddle bags.”
Cyn glanced at Andronikos again and for the first time noticed something black and round inside his left nostril. “Aww, look. Someone in the mob shoved a goat turd up his nose. I tell you Pons, these people are cruel. The sooner we are gone from among these Greeks and back among decent Latins and Allemagnes, the better.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so keen on leaving this place. All you’ve done since we got here three years ago is drink wine and bed doxies.”
Cyn decided not to let the comment about his uselessness pass. “I have provided a few useful contributions to this great plan.” He paused in thought. “Let’s see, I broke into a few places. I stood lookout while you did the same. Circumvented some rules in some games we had bets on. Shot crossbow bolts into a few soldiers. Looked after the horses almost all of the time.” Not having the patience to keep sucking, Cyn crunched the lemony candy between his teeth and tartness made him pucker.
“Has it been three whole years we’ve been at this?” He paused to consider. “I guess so. I suppose after we wrap this up we can head back to Montferatto. It’ll be nice to go home again.”