Imperial Fire by Robert Lyndon Page B

with a face that reminded Hero of the young Emperor Augustus – the same jutting, high-bridged nose, curly hair, rather prominent ears and a mouth both truculent and sensitive. He’d caught Hero’s attention soon after boarding the ship at Naples. Partly it was because he was alone and a Frank, a youth trying to project an image stern beyond his years. He was obviously poor, dressed in a patched tunic and crudely repaired shoes. For food all he had was a satchel of what looked like cold porridge that he cut with a knife and forced down with stolid revulsion. Hero had tried to engage him in conversation before and been rebuffed. The youth shunned all company, possibly because he spoke no Greek. Now, seeing the lad’s scarcely disguised nervousness, Hero decided to make another attempt.
    ‘A wonderful sight, but intimidating on first acquaintance. Imagine. Half a million souls dwell behind those walls.’
    The young Frank glanced at him, surprised to be addressed in French, then looked away.
    ‘This is my second visit,’ said Hero, ‘but the sight still quickens my pulse like no other. I’ll point out the landmarks if you want. The land walls were built by Theodosius more than six hundred years ago. They’re nearly four miles long and no army has ever breached them. Those splendid columns and façades above the sea walls are part of the Great Palace. Beyond is the dome of St Sophia. In a short while you’ll be able to see the whole structure, the most beautiful cathedral in Christendom.’
    ‘I’m not here to admire the views.’
    ‘I didn’t imagine you were. I assume you’re travelling to Constantinople to join the military.’
    ‘Assume what you like.’
    St Sophia in all its glory glided into full view. ‘My name is Hero of Syracuse. Some people think it’s a girl’s name.’ He pointed back down the Sea of Marmara. ‘Like the maiden whose lover Leander swam the Hellespont each night to be with his mistress. In fact my father named me after the inventor and mathematician, Hero of Alexandria.’
    The youth ignored Hero’s out-held hand. ‘I’ve never heard the name and I’m not interested.’
    Hero made one last effort. ‘We still have some time before we reach harbour. This breeze sharpens my appetite. Will you share breakfast with me? Just some bread, figs and cheese. A flask of decent wine.’
    The youth rounded on him. ‘Look, I know your type. I’ve had to deal with them since I left Aquitaine.’
    ‘Aquitaine? That’s interesting. As it happens —’
    ‘Don’t tell me. You just happen to have a friend from Aquitaine, so why don’t we all get together for a quiet supper. You’re not the first who’s tried that on.’
    Hero stepped back. ‘I can see you’re wary of strangers. Do you know anyone in Constantinople? I have a friend in the city who could give you advice on joining the military. In fact I’m here to visit him.’
    ‘You don’t take no for an answer, do you? I don’t want to share your food. I don’t want to meet your friend.’
    Hero coloured. ‘You’re too quick to twist motives. That’s not a trait that will take you far in Constantinople. The city has a reputation for eating strangers.’ The ship was approaching the Golden Horn. ‘I won’t impose on you any further.’ He laid a few coins down. ‘No, don’t throw them back. I know you need them. I bid you goodbye and good fortune.’
    Discomfited by the encounter, Hero gathered up his luggage and prepared to disembark. On landing, a customs official noted his name, place of origin and purpose of visit before waving him through onto the teeming quayside. A dozen porters surrounded him, clamouring to know where he wanted to go and offering competing fares even before he’d answered. He let the squall blow out before announcing his destination. ‘I’m travelling to the home of Count Vallon, a Frankish officer in the imperial army.’
    One of the porters thrust aside his competitors. ‘I know Vallon. He’s