‘Turkish spies,’ Boutoumites explained when the two Normans got close enough, ‘caught counting our numbers.’
Tancred was bemused. ‘That could be done from the walls by anyone with good eyes.’
Just then another Byzantine soldier elbowed his way to the front of the crowd and pushed on to hand something to Tacitus, which proved, when unrolled, to be a scroll. Following Boutoumites the two Normans edged closer, and when it was held out for them to see, it showed various lines and symbols as well as the outline of the lakeshore. It only took a second to work out the lines were of the defences of the southern edge of the siege lines, a shallow ditch deep enough only to slow a mounted assault, various drystone walls hastily thrown up to break up an attack, not comprehensive given they did not need to be; no threat was expected from that quarter.
‘Not only have they ceased to talk,’ Boutoumites opined, ‘it seems they wish to sally out and attack us.’
Bohemund slowly shook his head. ‘If they do they have chosen a stupid place to mount an assault.’
‘One they could not get close to without crossing the front of half our host,’ Tancred added, referring to the gate from which they would have to sally out, then the open flank. ‘They would be slaughtered.’
Obviously reacting to a previously given order, the live prisoner had been lashed to the pole from which flew the black eagle standard of Byzantium. Even caked with dust it was plain the captive was young, clear-skinned and had a cast to his eye that spoke of some status. Added to that he would have to speak Greek to be of any success as a spy, as well as understand and make sense of any the besiegers dispositions, which probably put him among the more senior ranks of the garrison, if not the very highest.
Tacitus was now standing before him with a knife in his hand, the prisoner’s eyes fixed on that even as he shook his head to refuse an answer to another question. The knife was used slowly to cut through his garments until his naked torso was exposed, what was visible, his scrunched genitals and black pubic hair, the subject of much ribald comment from the crowd.
Tacitus dropped the knife to the tip of the man’s limp cock and used the blade to lift it, then looked directly at the fellow, who had shuddered, with those watching imagining a grim smile on their general’s face. Not wishing to set in train anything not in the Byzantine’s mind, Bohemund moved very slowly to get closer until he could hear the words being used. Understanding Greek only got him so far; Tacitus was a ruffian, a half-breed, and his accent demonstrated it, but through what he understood and what he guessed the gist had to be that the fellow should tell all or be rendered a eunuch.
‘Ask him what time the attack will come,’ said Bohemund softly.
Tacitus half turned, the sneer on his face that would have told another interloper to stay out of things disappearing instantly. Bohemund was pleased to observe, and he was sure of this, that it was not fear that made the Byzantine alter his expression but a degree of respect. Like most men who fought for Alexius, the mercenary had heard of Bohemund of Taranto and so knew of his stature as a fighter and a general. Maybe he and Tacitus had at one time shared opposite sides of a battlefield, though it would have been before the fellow lost his nose, that shining feature being too memorable to forget.
After a slow nod, the question was posed, the response an uncomprehending look that to the Norman mind utterly lacked authenticity and Bohemund concentrated on his eyes as he responded, talking directly to the prisoner in Greek.
‘We have a way of questioning in Italy which you will not like. We light a fire and let it burn down to red, glowing coals, then we suspend the man who owes us answers on a spit above it and slowly roast him as we would a pig, with people on hand to keep him turning. First the skin becomes crisp, which is hard enough to bear, but then the juices of the body begin to drip onto the coals to make the heat even greater. The first part to roast to uselessness is that which hangs closest to the coals, so you will be unmanned quickly, though not as swiftly as with a knife.’
Delivered with deliberation, in a voice devoid of emotion, gave what was being said greater weight, that obvious by the growing fear in the Turk’s eyes.
‘Believe me, they will hear your screams in the city, and so loud will they be that they will seek to stop their ears. So at what time will the attack come?’
‘Why does he say that?’ Boutoumites whispered. ‘If we can see them sally out, what difference does it make?’
‘My uncle has discounted that because it does not make sense. Which means he is asking another question entirely.’
‘Tancred,’ Bohemund called over his shoulder in Greek, ‘we have pits already alight?’
‘We do.’
‘You have no time to delay, then, my Turkish friend. Speak now and live, upon my honour, or be carried to a place where you will answer the question, but will it be too late for you to ever be a man again, perhaps too late to ever be anything other than a pariah? What time will the attack come?’
The voice was hoarse, either from fear or a sense of betraying his kind, and the Turk dropped his head to avoid the Norman gaze. ‘At the third hour after dawn.’
‘And where is your Sultan now?’ That brought his head back up, the look in the eyes now one of quizzical surprise. ‘To the east, I suspect, hiding in the hills. You merely have to nod if it is true, you do not have to speak.’
That was a jerk, which had Bohemund request the young fellow be cut loose and taken to his tent, an act which sent up a murmur of disappointment from a gathering that had been looking forward to at least a disembowelling.
‘Let him bathe and find him some clothing,’ he called, as he approached Tancred and Boutoumites. ‘Now we know, Curopalates, why you were thrown out of the city with so little ceremony. Kilij Arslan has come back from fighting the Danishmends to try and save his city.’
‘This he told you?’ Boutoumites asked, not having heard the quiet exchange.
That got a smile. ‘I think it was I who told him, but it matters not.’
‘How did you know?’
‘When the first thought makes no sense, then there must be other motives for the acts of man. We must prepare for an attack and soon; the Sultan cannot stay hidden in the eastern hills without we quickly get word of him, added to which he cannot be well supplied, so I suspect it will come either tomorrow or the day after. Tancred, ride to Raymond, who is on the road and cannot be far off. Urge him to move with speed. With the Provencal forces here we can plan to destroy Kilij Arslan rather than just drive him off.’
Tancred had just begun to move when he heard Boutoumites speak, not to object but merely to observe that Bohemund was making a lot of assumptions, which got him a very sharp rejoinder.
‘I did not get my reputation by sleight of hand, Curopalates. If you doubt that, ask your Emperor. Now I must go and impress upon my peers that we must prepare.’
‘Then you must include Prostrator Tacitus. The Emperor has given him command.’
It was tempting to tell this arrogant courtier just what that truly meant, but again there was a need for a level of tact, which, if it did not come naturally, was delivered with gravity. Bohemund spun round to address the Byzantine General with a request to accompany him to the council pavilion, and when Tacitus got there, and the others had assembled, the old Byzantine soldier made no attempt to take a leading position, which proved he knew his true standing if Boutoumites did not.
‘Can we base all we know on the word of one captured fellow sent to scout our dispositions?’