Chapter 382 - 270: Wreckage
The southern coast of Anatolia was completely different from its western coast. The mountains of Lycia and Izulia were everywhere, with many ridges extending straight into the sea, making passage by land nearly impossible, let alone establishing a port.
Moreover, the islands here were not as dense as in the Aegean Sea. Many were uninhabited due to their small size, so there were very few supply points along the coast.
Therefore, they needed to pass through this stretch of sea as quickly as possible.
With no ports, there was no way to find any entertainment, and the sea voyage grew tedious.
Fortunately, the boredom was alleviated by tales from Constantinople and by the gold and silver gifted by the Greek Emperor.
Robert, as King of England and Lord of all Normans, received a gift of three hundred thousand Byzantine Gold Coins. He used the funds to procure equipment for some Norman Knights and Knight’s Squires who were in poor financial straits, and also provided the rowers with a small knife or dagger for self-defense.
Eric, as the de facto leader of the Pisans, sat at the very front of the fleet, while Robert, along with Odo and the Bishops, sat in the center.
Suddenly, a Pisan Sailor cried out.
The smoking vessel was a Greek *karabos* ship, its stern sinking and listing to one side.
It had been on fire, but the waves had extinguished the flames, leaving only a smoldering wreck. Two bodies floated nearby among the ashes and spars, unwilling to leave even in death.
At the bow, a Pisan Sailor named Orlando hooked one of the bodies with a Whaling Spear and dragged it over.
Orlando was a young man. Not long ago, when Robert used Alexios’s gift to procure some weapons for the unequipped, people had mocked him for choosing a Whaling Spear instead of a Long Spear—but now it was certainly proving its use.
The corpse was covered in wounds, torn and pale from blood loss, the gashes like mouths without lips. It lay stripped of possessions on the deck, a miserable sight, with blood seeping into the ship’s bilge.
"Stab and slash wounds," Eric said after examining it. "This is an arrow wound, no doubt, but they took the arrow. A barbed one, too—look here, it tore out a piece of the heart when it was pulled out."
"This was a privateer’s crewman," Brinyos said, lifting the dead man’s collar to reveal a badge that marked his Identity.
"Privateer?" Belem was unfamiliar with the term.
"Pirates licensed by the Emperor of Constantinople to plunder the Emperor’s designated targets, with their crimes pardoned. He was probably trying to force the Turkic People out of the coastal regions through raids," Eric explained to Belem.
"Yes," Brinyos nodded. "But it’s still not very effective. Zacas has countered the Emperor’s strategy forcefully."
"I suspect there’s something more to it," Lagman said, shaking his head.
The wreck of the Kener Ship gradually disappeared, leaving behind only the foul stench of wet charcoal. Eric surmised that one ship, or perhaps more, had attacked it. A battle had ensued, and he figured the attackers likely just fired arrows from a distance until the defenders gave up.
In his view, the rest of the crew were likely taken captive, perhaps as slaves, since there were only two bodies. The defenders must have surrendered after the ship was set on fire. This suggested the attackers were experienced, not only because they carried fire arrows, but also because they would have had to quickly seize the cargo and captives before the ship burned and sank.
They saw no other ships for the rest of the journey, until the night before their arrival in Cyprus, when the sun sank like a bloody mist.
Belem grilled fresh fish on a brazier set up over the ballast. The men sat cross-legged, eating the fish with thick porridge and drinking watery beer mixed with lemon juice.
Eric had started adding lemon to the beer to cut the stale taste from it being in the casks too long. The fruit, like cloudberries, also helped ward off the sickness of long sea voyages—the kind that caused sores and loosened the gums.
The Nordic Warriors from the Isle of Man began to sing laments filled with the mists and milky northern seas, where ice grinds stone to gravel.
The next day, after a difficult journey against a headwind, they finally put in at Larnaca Port in Cyprus. They approached cautiously, sailing almost directly against the unfavorable wind so that if there were any sign that Cyprus had fallen, Eric and his men could use the wind to make a swift retreat.
The town consisted of a cluster of white buildings, a Christian Church, and a sturdy fortress on a hilltop. The sandy shores of the curving bay were crowded with small, colorful fishing boats, their prows painted with eyes—a Greek symbol to ward off evil.
Behind the town was a landscape of gray rock and dust, dotted with grayish-green shrubs—a typical view on these islands that the Normans had come to recognize.
"This place isn’t bad," Belem said, wiping his hands and sniffing the faint aroma of food on the air. "And I smell wine," he added.
"Curb your enthusiasm," Eric said, gesturing toward the gathering crowd, which was a mixture of curious and fearful.
On the road from the castle, a column of Armed Soldiers snaked down the hillside toward the docks, their Long Spears glinting, led by a man on horseback.
The soldiers reached the docks, and the townspeople made way. They formed two neat lines, dressed in Leather Armor studded with metal plates, wearing metal Helmets, and carrying Round Shields and Long Spears.
The officer wore ornate Armor—a type called lamellar, with small metal plates covering a Leather base. His Helmet was decorated to look as if it were made from Wild Boar tusks, topped with a plume of horsehair.
"I could beat them with an empty waterskin," Belem said, spitting toward the sea. "These are half-baked soldiers."
He was right: they were half-baked soldiers, craftsmen in their daily lives, only called up and issued fighting gear when needed or for ceremonies.
Behind the armed troop was a sedan chair, which came to a halt. A man stepped out, smoothing the folds of his white robe. He was bald, with only a fringe of graying hair on the sides, and a wispy beard grew from his smooth chin. This, combined with his large ears, made him look like a goat, yet the officer saluted him.
He raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat, and respectfully announced that he was Constantine, the "Kafala" of Larnaca, a title equivalent to Governor.
The officer removed his Helmet, revealing a round face and sparse, sweat-soaked hair. He nodded and introduced himself as Nicos Tagadis. He was the Centurion here, in command of several hundred soldiers—though the men trailing behind him, sweating and looking ill at ease, hardly seemed like a mighty army.
They were insignificant compared to the massive fleet of Eric and his men. Fortunately, the sight of Brinyos’s purple Cloak offered them some comfort.
’That new Emperor in Constantinople just likes foreigners more than his own people.’