‘And now you’ve pimped yourself to Bohemond, the thief of thieves,’ he continued.
‘Surely you agree that a suspicious death should be laid to rest. Distrust and dissension among us will be fatal.’
‘It was a Norman death; we should be thanking God and praying for more.’
Sigurd’s foul temper at last ran silent, and I was able to enquire after Drogo without risking offence. Even so, I was frequently answered with scowls. Often I had trouble making myself understood with those I asked, for none of us spoke a common language. Rather, over the course of months we had learned to barter words, trading and hoarding them. As with all commerce, ill will made it infinitely harder.
After half an hour, I found the tent I sought. There was little to distinguish it, a patchwork cone of mismatched cloths which had been sewn and re-sewn until the neat stripes of its inception became a labyrinth of criss-crossed lines. The flaps were still down against the cold, and I rapped on the stiff fabric to announce myself. A small voice grudgingly called me in.
There were four straw mattresses on the earth floor inside, though only one occupant. It was the boy who had brought us to the body, the dead man’s servant, squatting on the straw and rubbing an oily tuft of wool along a sword blade. In the dusk and confusion of the night before, I had barely had time to look at him: now I noticed how deep-sunken his cheeks were, how the dark eyes seemed held in a perpetual terror. The brown hair which fell well past his shoulders gave him an unsettlingly girlish quality.
Despite the circumstances in which we had met the previous day, he gave no sign of remembering me. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name is Demetrios. This is Sigurd. You brought us to your master’s body last night. Now the lord Bohemond has charged us to discover who killed him.’
He inclined his head close to the blade, as if checking for some imperceptible flaw. ‘I did not kill him.’
So clumsy was the response that for a moment I did not know how to answer it. I crouched before him, trying to look into the downcast eyes, and softened my voice.
‘What is your name?’
‘Simon.’
‘From where?’
‘Cagnano.’
It might have been in Persia for all I knew. ‘How long did you serve Drogo, your master?’
Misery filled the boy’s face as he stumbled to answer my question, tapping his fingers hopelessly. Sigurd coughed impatiently, but I did not press the boy. His soul was brittle, and I sensed that even a little rough usage might snap it. As I waited, I watched the sallow light seeping under the edge of the tent. Every so often a passing shadow would interrupt it, but there was one shadow I noticed which did not move.
‘Since Heraklea. I do not know how long it has been since then.’
‘About six months,’ I guessed. ‘Who did you travel with to Heraklea?’
‘With my master’s brother. He died in the battle there. Afterwards, my master took me into his household.’
I remembered the battle at Heraklea – though in truth it had been barely a skirmish. On a dusty morning, the Turks in the garrison had made one charge at our vanguard, then fled away before us. We lost three men, probably fewer than those who died of thirst that day. I had thought little of them.
‘What kind of master was he?’
The boy sniffed, and wiped his nose with the wool. It smeared black oil over his cheek. ‘Fair. He rarely punished me when I did not deserve it. Sometimes he gave me food, when he could spare it.’
‘Did he have enemies?’
‘No.’
‘Who else sleeps in this tent?’
Did I imagine it, or did the shadow under the hem of the tent move? The boy, who had his back to it, shifted on the mattress and twisted the sword’s hilt in his hands.
‘Three companions of my master.’
‘Servants?’
‘Knights.’
‘Their names?’
‘Quino, Odard and—’
The snapping of canvas broke off the boy’s words, and we all three turned to look at the figure standing in the open door. I could see little more than his silhouette, a black form against the grey light outside. He stank of horse sweat.
‘Whelp!’ he barked, affecting not to notice Sigurd or me. ‘My mount has waited for your grooming for half an hour. If she has grown sores, or gone lame, I will visit her afflictions on you tenfold.’ He stepped into the room, and