As dusk settled in, the city Tzimiskes named Imbros at last came into view; and thankfully for the Rifles a city, or at least a large town, it was. The setting sun only struck high upon the four ball topped blue spires that were the only parts of Imbros observable over the gray stone wall that encircled the place. The wall looked sturdy enough, though parts of it had clearly been rebuilt fairly recently, as any of the men who had taken part in one of Lord Wellington's many sieges could a test. Each one of them was glad to see their destination; though while the two companies of Rifles could have kept going most of the night if forced to, the fifty Marines were done in.
"Thought Tzimiskes said the Yezd were on the other side of the sea from here?" Sharpe wondered, taking note of the repaired gaps. "Who the Hell else does Videssos war with?"
"He said their new Emperor conquered the throne. Maybe each other?" Frederickson suggested.
"Bloody marvelous," Sharpe snarled angrily, glad to have something to release the pain rising like floodwaters in his skull against.
"How'd they make a breach without cannon?" Harper muttered.
"Catapults, Sergeant Major," Frederickson responded. "A damn great lot of them."
"Still, without cannon firing back out, it'd be a lot easier to take than Badajoz," Sharpe commented; gaining him knowing nods of agreement from Harper, Harris, and Hagman, who'd all gone through the breach with him against the Crapauds' withering fire.
Their guide rode up to the closed gate and shouted at the shadowy outlines of guards a top it to let them in. A strangely accented Greek came rumbling down with an answer that set Tzimiskes off in a rant that included several usages of "Phos," none of which sounded like prayers to Sharpe's ear. He felt the better for it seeing that side of the knight's personality.
The delay in opening the gate at least allowed the last of Palmer's lagging web feet to catch up even if the sun was fully set by the time it creaked open. When the thick oak gate bound together by iron bands finished swinging wide, two squads of giants carrying torches in one hand and axes in the other tromped out.
"T'is Vikings, these are," Harper gawked.
"That one must be Odin then," Frederickson said, but none too loudly.
The score of men looked nothing like Tzimiskes or any of his outriders, "akrites" he called them. These were all tall men, the shortest a match for Sharpe's own six feet, and big too; the visible parts of their arms and legs that stuck out from surcoats and chainmail looked thick and muscular. In the flickering torch light they appeared fair of skin, not at all like Tzimiskes' olive tone, with mostly blonde or red hair. And at their head was in fact a one-eyed wonder. Even accounting for the helmet, Sharpe guessed him to be several inches taller than Harper and three or four stone heavier.
Odin came to a stop and in a deep, rumbling voice pronounced, "Neilos Tzimiskes."
"Skapti Modolfyios," their guide responded and then blathered on in Greek.
"Ah, there's Tzimiskes boy, Major," Harper pointed out. "Back there waiting with them quill pusher types. What was his name? Proklos?"
His friend's comment took Sharpe by surprise, he'd again been lost in the stabbing pain of his wound. He gave a dutiful smile to cover his distraction and thought hard to remember where he was and what he was doing.
"Somone's got to pay the coin for mercenaries. No wonder they want a look at the goods before they dig into the treasury," Frederickson wryly commented.
"I dare say we don't look as smart as that lot to their eyes," Palmer pointed out.
"Noooo," Sharpe echoed slowly. He decided the situation wouldn't do. "Captain, see to your Marines. Frederickson, assembly your company to his left. Minver assemble to his right. Quickly now." Like the good officers they were, none questioned him, but went to look after their men. In under a minute the gathered clump of soldiers had sorted itself out into a semi-martial formation. "Form double line!" Sharpe roared, setting his head to pound.
His sudden command startled Tzimiskes and the Skapti something or other named giant; both of them stopping in mid conversation.
"Attention!" Feet stomped. Rifle and Musket butts slammed into the ground.
"Marines, fix bayonets! Rifles, swords!" Blades slipped over the ends of muzzles and clicked ominously into place.
"Front rank, kneel!" The ground thudded as eighty men dropped to one knee.
"Present arms!" The butts swept off the ground and snugged tight into the crooks of shoulders.
Sharpe yanked out his heavy cavalry sword and turned stock still at attention. "Sir, the 60th Rifles and his Majesty's Marines reporting for duty, Sir!" Thunder crashed in waves behind the bandage over his forehead. He hoped he wouldn't faint.
A fat man in maroon robes, a narrow silver crown sitting on a bald head, stepped out of the shadows inside the gate. Sharpe heard Tzimiskes say, "Hypasteos Vourtzes" as he sketched a brief bow from the perch of his saddle. The fat man murmured a few things. Tzimiskes face turned stony, but said not a word. Skapti's Odin eye scanned back and forth over the Rifles and Marines once. He shrugged his shoulders, then nodded an affirmative to whatever the question had been.
The fat man's pudgy face scowled a moment. He said something, waved a hand in the air, and turned around to walk back inside the town. The mercenary giants quickly followed. Tzimiskes allowed himself a short grin and called out in Greek.
"They'll take us for now as simple garrison troops, Major," Frederickson translated. "Tzimiskes will show us to our barracks."
Sharpe didn't remember ordering the men into column, but sure enough they were marching through dark streets, some cobblestone and others dirt. He shivered the whole time, unable to pay attention to the twists and turns Tzimiskes led them through. The one story building they arrived at looked to have seen better days, but it had a mostly intact roof and chimneys at either end. The men had stayed in plenty worse. "Captain Palmer, send some Marines to find water. Lieutenant Minver, your Rifles have to make sure there are enough loos. Captain Frederickson, detail some men to scrounge up whatever food we've left and make a kitchen. The rest of you, clean this sty out. We'll figure out the rest in the morning." When the lads dispersed, he walked inside and found a corner to get out of the way in.
Sharpe woke to the sound of moaning. Something wet lay over his face, he could barely see. The moaning he distantly realized was his.
"Sooooo, cold. Cold," he shivered.
"Move him closer to the fire," someone commanded.
Sharpe felt hands lift him and move him. More sticky wetness dribbled down off his brow, threatening to glue his eyes shut again. It smelled horrible. It smelled of death. His stomach revolted. He wretched.
"It'll be alright, Sir," Patrick whispered. "They're getting' a doctor for ya."
"A priest," he barely heard William snort with disgust.
Something blue hovered over him. Sharpe felt woozy, disjointed, and cold as hell or a Spanish winter in the mountains. He tried to focus, now seeing what might be a hand reaching out for him; above it a thin-faced man with bright, burning eyes was chanting softly. "Blah, blah Phos … blah, blah … Phos blah." Fingers gently touched his forehead. Sharpe screamed in agony, they felt like red hot pokers piercing his brain. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, battling with the blood and puss crusted to his lashes. His body stiffened and clenched and shook. He bit down hard on his tongue, fearing to unman himself in front of the men.
Calm.
Light.
Peace.
The pain drained out of him like dirty water swirling out of a tub.
"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary," Harper mumbled. He heard others around him gasp, "Magic."
He blinked, and then in irritation raised a hand to swipe once, swipe twice the putrid smelling gunk off his face and forehead. Able now to see, a blue clad, shave headed priest hovered over him as he lay on a blanket. The fire in the eyes of that thin face now appeared banked compared to how brightly they'd glowed before. The man gave him a tired smile. "Blah, blah Phos."
"Phos," Sharpe whispered back to him.
"Do ya see that, just a wee scar, Captain!" Harper expostulated.
"How do you feel, Major?" William asked.
"I'm hungry," he answered in a matter-of-fact voice.