Sharpe and his officers spent the evening in Tzimiskes' office at the main akritai barracks negotiating with the general Khoumnos. All the previous long nights debating how best to prepare the men to fight against the Cossack resembling Yezda were now proven well spent. Sweet William did most of the speaking for their side, while Sharpe, Minver, and Palmer sipped the too sweet Videssian wine and followed along as best their weak Greek allowed. Occasionally the general would ask Tzimiskes or the pudgy little wizard-priest Nepos a question.
Yes, the Empire would provide both a location and the materials necessary for the production of more magic powder, talisman shot, and muskets, but not rifles, at least initially. The differences between the Brown Bess and the Baker had been described; and, most importantly, the length of time it took to produce a threaded barrel and a competently trained rifleman explained.
The Videssians had been intrigued by the description of cannons and rockets. Their imaginations could grapple the value of increased range of fire. William, who had been with Sharpe at Adrabos – where Teresa had been murdered and Hakeswill at last ultimately punished for his many sins, had wisely refrained from explaining how iffy the Congreves were to aim. Though the group of officers had already concluded that accuracy might not be required to spook enemy horse unaccustomed to gunpowder explosions on the battlefield. The question they had in turn needed answering was whether the Rifles and Marines could expect to encounter magical based ones in return; thankfully, apparently not.
The lads had enough knowledge among them that Sharpe knew they could forge all that they needed; not quickly at first, surely. But practice would make them better at it. And thankfully, Nepos had not disputed the overlarge list of elements they claimed would be needed. Perhaps out of honor among "magicians" or the simple belief that he could figure out any suspected subterfuge related to the list on his own; the cheery bald priest did have an air of competence about him.
Yes, too, until enough muskets could be produced to train an entire battalion of "fire wielders" to fight in the line of battle, a battalion sized unit of local levies would be assigned come spring to learn to act as the shield and spear to the Rifles' even longer ranged spears. Yet another headache for Sharpe to deal with, no doubt, when the time came. He could well imagine dealing with a Videssian officer who had the low brains and high arrogance of Hypasteos Vourtzes instead of the steady Tzimiskes. That simply seemed to be his luck, or curse, rather, when it came to officers not named Hogan or Lawford or Nairn or, of course, Wellesley.
As far as most of the Rifles and Marines would be concerned, the expected rate of pay proposed by Khoumnos was more than generous based on the prices Sharpe had seen in Imbros. Though William cautioned him to expect Videssos the City to be more dear. Raised mostly as an orphan in Wapping, he bitterly understood the ways of a big city and needed no reminding of any of the brutal lessons he had learned starting at a too young age.
They had landed in a tough situation. And they were surprisingly making the best of it. What if they had "landed" in Yezd or Khatrish or Pardraya or Halogaland and had to fight for their lives from the get go? Still, Sharpe was veteran and cynic enough not to get his hopes up. Situations by his experience were seldom ever quite as dire or as rosy as they seemed at first glimpse. So he'd keep his arse tucked in tight while waiting for the inevitable kick of fate's harsh boot.
Heavy autumn showers began only a few days after Khoumnos and Nepos departed with the bones of the agreement for their Avtokrator Mavrikios Gavras' approval. Before leaving, the General did abide by the bargain's first point, that being to pry the Hypasteos Vourtzes' fat fingers off of Imbros' coffers in order to provide enough silver and gold for the men's basic necessities. The first thing Sharpe spent their mercenary's dowry on was proper marching boots for Palmer's sore winged web-foots and leather to patch the Rifles own well-worn gear.
Next, he paid to outfit the lot of them with wood swords, practice spears, and overlarge shields in order for Sweet William to teach them the time honored Saxon tradition of how to fight in a shield wall. If they were to integrate themselves into the Avtokrator's army against the Yezd, the men needed to understand how the bastards fought. Half the time, Patrick, Rosner, and a dozen of the largest men were given the roll of Danes, or Halogai, trying to break the wall before the squad standing in line behind the shields could get off three rounds in a minute. The rest of the time a score or more of men were told to run around in front of the shields, whooping like Red Injuns and launching blunted spears, as if they were arrow shooting Yezd.
The last of the coin, other than that which went to their physical sustenance and liquid based morale, provided the clever-most handed with the iron and other materials to try and forge a musket barrel. Sharpe had promised Khoumnos that they could, so they damned well must; turning skills that leaned more toward mending and repairing into outright making.
With the growing rains and resulting increase in mud, the men worked more often in the courtyard behind their fully repaired barracks instead of heading out of the city to march and drill. Sharpe didn't much mind, he preferred staying dry as much as any of his lads. He did hide a smile each time he chanced seeing Tzmiskes or his deputy Proklos Mouzalon head out into the muck with a band of mounted akritai. Unlike Lord Wellesley and his unnaturally avid devotion to using the green coats, the Videssions sent out their cavalry regardless of the weather to patrol, scout, and gather information.
A typical rainy day found Hagman's melancholy yet reassuring voice singing a slew of Cheshire folk songs from beneath an overhang as Rifles and Marines went about their work. The oldest man in the unit sang of grain fields, forested ridges, the Mersey, country lasses, and cattle raids. The lyrics were invariably accompanied by one of Frederickson's Germans on what passed for a local guitar, the stamping of feet, the beating of wood swords against shields, and the metallic hammering from the makeshift smithy set up in the rickety stables.
Eventually the ever colder rains turned into the year's first snowstorm. And by the time nothing more than a few drifts of it remained, the lost soldiers from Lord Wellesley's invasion of southern France had been in Imbros two months and five of the men had killed themselves from despair of ever returning home. Thankfully, the daily routine which was heading towards deadly monotony, no matter how hard the officers and Harper and Rossner urged them on, was broken up by the arrival of a messenger from the Avtokrator's own Imperial Guard: "Time to march, by Phos!"
The next morning, Tzmiskes and Proklos met them at the southern gate of Imbros to bid them farewell. The few Halogi on duty watched their departure with the typical stoic indifference the Rifles had come to expect from the big Vikings. Of bloated Hypasteos Vourtzes, there was no sign. Little surprise that; though Skapti Modolfyios was atop the town's wall staring intently at them with his one eye. When Sharpe gave the giant Odin a salute, the warrior responded with an acknowledging bob of his stern face.
Gently rolling, but cold and muddy, countryside greeted them upon leaving. Sharpe and the 60th Rifles had marched through much worse conditions in Spain. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the Marines. Palmer and the web-foots were game, and the training, if simple long distance marches can rightly be called training, around Imbros had helped; but it wasn't enough. Distance and near freezing temperatures and snow drifts slowed and sapped the Marines' strength. And the shortening daylight hours of Autumn weren't any aid either for putting long miles in. The going was slow; yet this time Sharpe insisted everyone must stay together the whole time.
It snowed lightly several times during the journey, but thankfully nothing heavy; nor much in the way of rain or sleet. Twice the party of hundred and seventy marching men and two mounted Videssian guides were able to find shelter at night in a village; though the welcome, until silver was shown and handed over, was as frigid as the air. Under Harper's and Rossner's threatening eyes the lads kept their cocks dry around the local women folk. The other eight nights it took the motley group to near Videssos, as it started to darken, they would simply find a place off the road to sleep that was out of the wind and had enough ready kindling and logs that fires could be kept.
On the eleventh day out of Imbros, they came out of the long line of low hills and descended towards the glimpse of a cold, dark sea. On a narrow coastal plain, with the scent of salt in the wind, the road intersected another. Their lead guide, from a top his horse, pointed south down a much wider road and announced, "The 'City' is a day's march that way. You lot will go the other direction."
"How far?" Sharpe asked.
"We should be there as Phos' light departs; if you don't lag," that last bit aimed at the red coated marines.
"So long as there's a warm bed and something hot to sip when we arrive, I'll be happy, sir," Harper declared.
Sharpe nodded in thoughtful agreement. Khoumnos had said he'd find them some place remote to begin work on their "magic". That hadn't suggested cushy quarters like the Horse Guard's barracks near Saint James. Still, if they were only a day and half's march, assuming the web-foots could make it, away from Videssos the City, how remote could it be?
Turning North, the road rose and eased a bit back inland as the coast itself gave away from easy egresses to the shore to outright cliffs. As the sun started to dip and they approached a sizeable wooded area, a ragged looking man slouched on horseback came out of a smallish, rundown looking barn.
With no sign of fear the middle-aged, sun weathered man stopped his nag in the middle of the road. "Are you the foreigners?" he challenged boldly.
"I am the spatharios Nikephoros," the lead guide declared haughtily, as he reached into the leather bag hanging from his saddle. "Here is the Sebastokrator's writ for these Enklish mercenaries." Out came a scroll with a mark of some sort made into the wax sealing it shut.
"Give it to the Lady. I'm just her shepard," the man answered bluntly, unimpressed by the junior officer's bluster. He probably couldn't read the scroll even if he cared to, Sharpe decided. "This way," he commanded and turned the nag to head off towards the coast without a look to see if he was followed or not.
"We're almost there, lads," Sharpe encouraged; though he got no response from the cold, tired men. On they trod through various harvested, manured, fallow, and plowed for winter wheat fields. The path was rutted by the passage of years' worth of farm carts; and not more than a foot wider either side.
At last the sea came again into view, with a fairly substantial, curved headland jutting out into it.
"That should do, I suppose," laughed William.
A modest village in support of a decent sized manor sat on the raised peninsula. A simple log and blocked stone wall cut the place off from the mainland. And at the bottom of the cliff on the inside of the curve a pier and a half dozen small fishing ships could be seen.
It was remote in its own way, Sharpe supposed. "We've stayed in worse," he gruffly agreed. "Now let's see who this Lady is." That was one thing he definitely hadn't considered during the entire march, that he might have to answer to a woman.