The Frank's face screwed up like a puckered quince and Alexandros felt the same disgust. Months of heavy labor cast aside… their swift-mounted army would now ride, crammed like goats into a stinking hold, then walk to battle, wherever the wind had taken them.
Horses neighed angrily, struggling in their hoods. Grooms and cataphracts alike crowded around the lading ramp of the barge, hands seizing cables and ropes, others pressed against heavy, sweaty brown flanks. The first of the Khazar chargers kicked, splintering a wooden stay, knocking a man into the water. Spray fountained up and the plainsman struggled out, drenched, water lilies in his hair. Jusuf, watching from the shore, jogged down, bare feet squelching on the muddy beach.
The barge had been acquired the previous year in Chersonessos on the northern shore of the Sea of Darkness. Months of travel around the verge of the brackish sea had seen Khazar shipwrights cut away the bow to install a levered bridge that winched down on a beach or sloping shore, letting the horses carried within trot safely to land. Splashing out into the muddy water, he reached the end of the ramp. On this section of shoreline, the sea had proved shallower than expected.
For two miles in either direction, here opposite the great city, the Khazar army was unloading in a confused, riotous mass of men, ships, barges, boats, horses and wagons. Somewhere to the north, Kagan Dahvos and the main body were unloading at the port of Damalis, in a proper harbor, with lading cranes and winches. Here, two men pitched to and fro on the ramp, trying to hold it down by main strength. The horses could smell water in front of them and bucked, neighing in fear. Jusuf waded up, just as a fine-looking gelding clattered forward, long mane flying.
"Watch out!" shouted one of the men, a dark-haired Greek with shoulders like Atlas. Jusuf nimbly avoided a flying hoof, swinging up onto the ramp. With his added weight, the wood settled into the water and he caught a flying rein, pulling the horse's big square head close to his own. Hot breath whuffed in his face, and Jusuf grinned in delight.
"Easy, easy there." The gelding shied away, pulling at the rein, but the Greek had climbed up as well and laid gentle hands on the horse's shoulder. Between the two men, they managed to coax the gelding into the water and then to dry land. Smelling one of their own safely ashore and hearing him chomp noisily on carrots and apples proffered by Jusuf from a leather sack at his waist, the rest of the horses followed in better humor.
The troop of cavalry-a jegun, as the T'u-chueh would say-gathered under a copse of trees an arrow's flight from the shore. Jusuf and his guardsmen had tethered their own horses in the shade. He passed among the cavalrymen, taking their measure, speaking to some he knew from the markets of Itil. They were southern Khazars, from Samandar the White beside the Salt Sea. Jusuf was pleased with their spirit-everyone was cheerful and eager to be home again. Some of the men cast covetous eyes on the rich, loamy soil and the hillsides covered with orchards and gardens. The plains of Khazaria were neither so rich nor so plentiful in their yield. Jusuf did not think any would stay in the warm south, though he allowed he could be mistaken. He missed the open sky and endless, rolling vistas of the steppe. This land was too hot, too close and too crowded.
Reaching his horse, the tarkhan's heart lifted to see a heavy enameled bow case still slung on the saddle. Two of his guardsmen had remained with their mounts while Jusuf had gone down to the shore. Horseflesh was highly prized, even among the dirt farmers. He ran a proprietary hand over the black case. The bow within was nestled in Roman cloth as soft as a woman's hair. Nervous to see the weapon so exposed, he turned a corner of the riding blanket over the painted wood.
"Ready, tarkhan?" His guardsmen were mounted and ready, each man on a different mount than he'd brought ashore in the morning. The army was preparing for a long march; soon they would be alternating walking and riding to spare the horses. Jusuf nodded absently, taking a last look around the grove of trees, measuring the faces of the men and the health of the horses in the jegun. As he did, his eye lit on the same dark-haired Greek cinching the bellyband of a Khazar horse, a scabbarded gladius and axe swinging from a strap over his shoulder. What is this? A Greek among us?
"Wait a moment." Jusuf ran his hand gently across the bow case before striding off through the high grass. His guardsmen sighed, then settled in to wait. Who knew what these officers were doing? The kagan had declared the army would land and then march east along the main highway until they reached the town of Kosilaos, all in a single day. Twenty miles from the Chalcedonian shore, more or less. A late night's camp, they grumbled.
"What is your name, soldier?"
The Greek looked up and Jusuf slowed to a halt, struck by the man's odd dark eyes. This close, the Khazar was impressed by the scars-old and new-making a tracery on his exposed arms and neck. The broad shoulders were no illusion either, feeding powerful arms and wrists like tree roots. A legionary, Jusuf guessed. How odd.
"Ruf-no, call me Hippolytus, my lord," the man answered. As he did, a peculiar expression of relief filled his face. "Hippolytus," he said again, taking his time with the word.
"You're a Roman soldier," Jusuf said. "Why do you ride with Bulan's jegun?"
The Greek offered a slight smile, causing a deep scar at the corner of his mouth to twist like a snake. "I was a soldier for the old Emperor," he said in a deep voice. "Heraclius is dead, and his son taken into the west." Hippolytus shrugged, making his mailed breastplate shimmer. "There is nothing for me in the Empire anymore. I wish to go to a new land and begin a new life, far from Rome and Achaea and everything here."
Jusuf nodded slowly, searching the man's face. It was weathered and old, graven by many misfortunes and mischance. How old is this man? The black eyes seemed fathomless, barely reflecting the dappled sunlight. A sense of enormous, long-held grief radiated from him. Grief and terrible loss. There was something familiar about him too… The Khazar felt a chill raise the hackles on his arms and neck but then the moment passed. Just another elderly Greek soldier with too many memories.
"You've sworn fealty to the kagan, then? Accepted his bread, placed your hand on his stirrup?"
"Yes," the Greek said, placing a broad palm over his heart.
"Then," Jusuf said, striking upon a thought and finding it pleasing. "You will ride with me, and my guardsmen-your Turkic is not so good, I'd imagine?"
"No," laughed the Greek, "but I find languages easy."
"Good. Ride with me, then, and I will teach you the ways of our people, Hippolytus."
"Very well." The Greek turned to Bulan, who had ridden up to see what transpired. "Captain-this man wishes me to go with him-is this meet?"
"Thief of a prince," Bulan growled at Jusuf, making the tarkhan smile. "Recruiting your own war band, are you? I'll trade him to you, my lord, for a brace of your Thessalian mares."
Jusuf raised an eyebrow at Bulan's bold words. "You've grown avaricious down among these Greeks! I'll gift you a wagon instead, with sprung wheels and a tarp."
"Done." The beki jegun grinned as well, showing gappy yellow teeth. The Khazar spat on the ground, then clasped wrists with Jusuf. "And done."
"Come then." Jusuf waved the Greek towards his guardsmen, who had taken the opportunity to lie down in the grass under the trees. Two men remained on watch, while the others napped. "We've a hard ride, before night falls. The kagan wishes to be gone from Roman lands with all haste."
Hippolytus nodded in agreement, swinging up onto his horse. For a moment, he looked back, across the broad, sparkling waters of the Propontis, at the domes and towers of the city shining in the afternoon sun. A bleak look crossed his face, but then he turned away, idly scratching at a still-healing scar on his breast. The wound was itching under the breastplate, but he knew the angry, reddish flesh would knit soon, leaving only one scar among many.