Chapter 79

  Not the Nail from the true Cross

  Andronikos spent hours in practice twirling and throwing the lasso from one end of his cell to the other, yet this had not prepared him for the difficulty of attempting to toss it, again and again, high atop a merlon where the sea wall met the main Theodosian land wall in a shadowed nook on the north grounds of the palace.

  Five casts.

  Patience. The manacles on his wrists clanked alarmingly and impeded the centrifugal momentum of his swing.

  Nine casts.

  The change of guard shifts was due soon.

  On the lucky thirteenth toss the noose settled over the marble ledge.

  Fully over?

  Please Holy Mother.

  He tested it, then climbed using his powerful upper body strength. Preparing for this night he exercised for months, recalling the calisthenics and training yard of his youth. Up - over. He transferred the rope to another merlon on the opposite side, hanging it to be withdrawn providing no sign of his departure.

  Leave them confused. Was he still in the palace? Still in the city? Fled by land? Fled by sea?

  He slunk along the crates, barrels, and amphora which lined the dock of the Neorian harbor. The ship was in sight. The youth who served in the prison had been quizzed on the varangian patrols of the walls, however Andronikos had forgotten to seek information about the patrols of the viglas who kept order on the streets of the city and its docks. The clinking of his chins betrayed his position to three men of the city watch, two with stout cudgels, one with a staff and a rushlight torch.

  “Who goes there?”

  Andronikos was unarmed and manacled. Neither fight nor flight were options. He stepped from behind the bale of cloth where he had been hiding.

  “What are you doing skulking back there?”

  For a moment Andronikos said nothing. Over the shoulders of the viglas, a man walked up the dock coming in their direction. He had the rolling saunter of a sailor and was coming from the ship Andronikos intended to board. Was the man coming from his ship? Yes. Second berth as Helena had relayed.

  “Please. You help. I beg,” Andronikos grunted to the viglas.

  “What’s this big bugger on about?”

  Andronikos sank to his knees. “I - free man. My ship.” He smashed his fists together, his voice growing louder. “Sea thieves. I…” he shook his manacles, “Slave.” He garbled his speech and extended his jaw slackly.

  “Are you stupid? Can’t you speak Greek proper?” The men with cudgels moved to encircle him. “He’s a dull one.”

  “Hide me. My master comes. He will lash me. He will set me to row forever.”

  “Ah ha. So you’re a run away? You know what happens to run away slaves?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The men with cudgels took his arms and dragged him up.

  It was at this point when the captain of the St. Christopher, came within earshot of the encounter. Bored and anxious waiting onboard, he wandered to the end of the dock specifically to seek his mystery passenger (‘a tall man’ the agent let slip). He had been well paid for his services and discretion, and to have the smith aboard his dromon ready to strike shackles when his guest arrived. It took no guesswork on his part to ascertain what was occurring and then to play his part.

  “I beg justice. Take me to Emperor. Mercy.”

  “Ha.”

  “Master no, do not whip me. Do not set me to oar.”

  Having been provided his cue, The St. Christopher’s captain interjected, “Ah ha, good watchmen. You have found my escaped rower. This fellow is my best one. Simpleton though he is, he pulls for two. Allow me to give you vigilant men a silver stamenon each for your trouble. Now, back to the bench with you troublemaker.”

  Darkened with soot Andronikos looked every bit to be the man he intimated he was. Once kicked and cuffed onboard and into the main cabin, he doubled over with mirth and clapped the captain on the back. Andronikos took to the oar once they cast off and waved to the viglas as they slid out of the Golden Horn. Once past the great chain the fetters were struck. Wine and toasts made an end to his evening’s caper. They tacked and rowed north through the Bosphorus.

  That was as good as the voyage went. Contrary winds blew from the northwest and severe dysentery broke out among the crew. Their cruise slowed to an aching crawl. Andronikos himself took to the oars to keep up the men’s spirits, singing lustily as he pulled.

  Swift riders from the capital arrived in Anchialos on the coast of the Black Sea before their ship put in to port. Having come so far and risked so much he was determined not to give up now. Andronikos lingered below deck and sent one of the few healthy crew to gather supplies and horses. When he did set forth, people in the crowd murmured and pointed.

  “Izzat him with the beard?”

  “The big one the garrison commander spoke of?”

  “I heard the reward was five hundred hyperpyron.”

  Moving quickly Andronikos crossed the few hundred meters to the northern gate, gave a few coins to the crewman for his services, mounted and laid on the spurs. Venturing out alone, his plan was to reach Galitza, court of Prince Yaroslav ‘Eight Minded’ of the Halychian Rus. Beyond the Empire.

  The pace Andronikos set, and the miles he and his horses ate up over the first two days of his flight north through an unfamiliar country, would have done credit to our Marius. However he could not outrun either the rumor of his reward, or the bacteria in his own colon; which rode along unnoticed, until it was very noticeable indeed.

  Doubled up and befouled on the side of the road, his horses wandered off, a feverous Andronikos was surrounded by a group of Vlach shepherds who bound his hands with rough hemp rope and made him their prisoner.

  The Vlachs were not unkind, the reward would surely be more were the fugitive brought in alive. In sympathy to his fever one gave Andronikos his own broad brimmed hat. The days long march back to Anchialos was slowed by his doubled over staggering, and need to retreat to the bushes or tall grass to continually relieve himself. Andronikos asked for his hands to be tied in front and for a walking stick to be provided to help speed things along.

  After one trip by himself in a ditch at the side of the road, Andronikos decided the worst had passed. Returning to the Vlachs they granted him the dignity of undoing his bonds in order to clean himself with foliage. Andronikos used the opportunity to remove the nail hidden in his beard and hide it between his middle and ring finger as he meekly submitted and allowed his hands to be bound once again.

  Slowly, methodically, surreptitiously, he picked at the fibers of the ropes binding his wrists. Step - step, he walked. Click - click, the walking stick kept pace. Pick - pick, the ropes loosened.

  Then again? Yes again. He needed to retreat once more to the west of the road. Behind a hummock he set the staff and arranged his cloak with the hat perched on top just so. From the road he appeared hunched over doing his business. In the tall grass he crawled on his knees and elbows.

  He kept crawling east even as he heard them discover his trick. Crawled as they argued. Their noise faded. He crawled until his joints bled. Then he came to a creek running north. Dehydrated, he drank his fill. Taking to his feet, he splashed along the stream. He hoped that would hide the scent. Perhaps they had retraced their steps north thinking he had sought to regain the road. In a thicket he found a stouter walking stick which could serve as a fighting staff. Any stream running north would eventually lead to the Danube. The Danube would eventually lead to Yaroslav the Eight Minded.