But right now these Seljuks were retreating east at an astonishing pace, and despite the gut-jarring evening and night in the saddle, the swift, light cavalry units of the Imperial Excubitores and the thematic army of Antioch – there were virtually no surviving horses or men from the thematic army of Cilicia – could not bring them in sight. The pursuit through the plains of the Orontes River Valley had been especially brutal for the Varangians, who simply couldn’t ride with the Romans but had maintained the pace through sheer endurance and tenacity. And now they were going up again, back into the rocky foothills that would soon rise to even more torturous heights.
Blymmedes heard approaching hoofbeats and hailed the rider, one of an endless relay of akrites who had ridden ahead of and behind the column all night long. He turned to Constantine. ‘If we do not intercept them before they make Aleppo, I am certain we will not see our Empress for some time. And the ransom could be insuperable.’
‘I assure you our Father will bear any demands to obtain the safety of his wife,’ said Constantine indignantly. He did not add that the price had already been fixed and in any event would come from a contingency fund that Joannes had amassed with a triple surcharge to the window tax, levied a year ago in all eighteen Asian themes.
‘The Emir of Aleppo has made an alliance he will soon regret,’ said Blymmedes. ‘He may not be able to control his Seljuk servants. And I assure you they are nowhere near as cognizant of Imperial protocol as the good Emir is.’
Constantine straightened in his saddle, the alarms clanging in his road-assaulted skull. That would be the end of them all. Why hadn’t Joannes thought of this? Then the alarms were replaced by sweeter music. Well, perhaps the august Orphanotrophus Joannes simply could not dictate everything to ‘Brother’ out here in far-flung Antioch. Perhaps ‘Brother’ would have to rescue this perhaps not-so-thoroughly planned enterprise with his own astute initiative. Ah, but ‘Brother’ must be careful; he was reaching high, and he should provide a bed of straw to cushion his fall if he did not attain his objective. ‘What is your plan, Domestic?’ growled Constantine with feigned uninterest.
‘I believe they will stop, water and fodder their horses, and rest for a few hours. Then they will send half their force in one direction to mislead or even harass us, while the rest will proceed directly to Aleppo. I believe they will make this stop at a fortified place.’
‘Between here and Aleppo?’ asked Constantine irritably; Blymmedes was falling to pieces. He was a typical career military man, Constantine reflected, crowing lustily atop his own dung heap but at an utter loss in true adversity. ‘The closest fortification is only eight leagues from Aleppo. Why would they pause there?’
‘Have you ever sent a reconnaissance as far as Harim?’ Blymmedes was astonished. The Saracens exerted control of the countryside only several leagues east of Antioch; wasn’t Constantine concerned as to what the infidels might be up to right on his own threshold?
‘Our tax collectors don’t go out that way any more,’ answered Constantine. ‘We don’t need those revenues, and not many peasants are willing to farm out there, what with nothing to protect them save the ruins of the kastron near Harim.’ A kastron was a fortified town. ‘I suppose you would suggest I rebuild the kastron? The cost would hardly be offset by the increase in tax revenues. You should focus on military matters, Domestic, with which you seem to have ample difficulty as it is. Leave civil administration to those with the requisite expertise.’
‘You would not need to rebuild the kastron, Strategus. My akrites have seen it recently. The Saracens have rebuilt it for you.’
For a moment Constantine refused to believe Blymmedes. Very well, he then conceded to himself, perhaps one did become contemptuous of Saracen threats within the walls of Antioch. ‘So you think they will pause at the kastron. If it is such a threatening fortification, how do you expect to besiege it with several exhausted droungos of light cavalry?’
‘I think if we appear, we will bottle them up. Then we can bring up siege machinery and go to work on the walls.’
Constantine frowned, trying to make sense of this new music. It was becoming increasingly titillating to his ear. Yes, most pleasant. With the siege engines in place, the leader of the Seljuks might be compelled to negotiate independently of his agreement with the Emir of Aleppo. He might be convinced to surrender his prize at a significant discount. And the Emir could hardly grumble, because he had already received partial payment and would be relieved of having to compensate his Seljuk hirelings. And the enormous sum left in difference, well of course that would be returned to Joannes’s special treasury – minus a suitably ample reward for the extraordinarily illustrious engineer of this successful conclusion. Ah, very sweet music indeed. But what if the Seljuk beasts are not so reasonable? Well, that was the risk one had to take, or else remain in Antioch for ever. Besides, there was an easy way to indemnify himself.
Constantine pulled himself erect. ‘I concur with your judgement, Domestic. But since your intent for the moment is merely to frighten the infidels into remaining at the kastron, I reason that it would make sense for me to withdraw my forces to Antioch and begin requisitioning the appropriate siege equipment.’ Constantine tugged his horse’s reins and rode off without waiting for a reply.
‘What a filthy man,’ Zoe pulled her veil more tightly around her face. Her blue eyes shone like gems in the dismal room. The eunuch, who spoke only the local Arabic dialect, set the silver tray down, then bowed and retreated as if he had been addressed with appropriate decorum.
Maria sat crossed-legged on a stained linen cushion, balefully studying the four Saracen women who sat against the wall opposite her; the plaster was new, but the tapestry that covered much of it was moth-eaten and faded.
‘Can you imagine?’ said Zoe airily. ‘I had heard that their women were veritable chattels, but the emirs and ambassadors we have dealt with were always so civilized. Apparently, here they are rather less gracious. I’m certain that their stables are cleaner than their women’s quarters. Of course, given the choice, the brutes who have absconded with us might prefer the enchantments of their steeds to these greased piglets they call their wives.’
The Saracen women – three chubby, barely pubescent children and one darkly pretty young woman – tittered shyly at the Empress’s dismissive gesture and then resumed their entranced study of the silk-draped woman they understood to be the mother of the prophet Christ. Maria caressed the back of her hand with the fingers of the other and avoided Zoe’s inquiring look.
‘Little daughter,’ admonished Zoe, ‘you are making far too much of this. Tomorrow we shall be in Aleppo, we shall have our Leo back, and no doubt the Emir will immediately regale us with tales of his exotic land. You know that their literature is so much more . . . forthright than ours, don’t you dear? I suppose that explains why all the sons of Hagar are so frightened of women that they must keep them locked away. After all, they have heard so many epics of these . . . temptations. Pity that the reality is so artless. Have you noticed the coarseness of their complexions?’
‘We will never see Aleppo.’ Maria’s voice was so deep and soughing that it scarcely seemed to be her own.