Chapter 50: FROM CHRYSOPOLIS TO NICAEA

They rode until they reached Chrysopolis at a measured pace, the line of riders stretching longer behind them than it had any right to be.

The town revealed itself gradually. First the scent reached them, thick and immediate. Fish laid out upon boards, tar warmed by the sun, damp rope and brine. Then the noise followed. Boatmen shouting over one another in coarse familiarity, merchants calling out rates, pilgrims murmuring prayers beneath their breath as though proximity to the crossing demanded preparation of the soul.

Only then did the docks come into view.

Wooden structures extended into the water in uneven lines, worn smooth by years of passage. Ferries rocked against their moorings, hulls creaking as they accepted and released the constant motion of the current. Beyond them, across the narrow stretch of water, the mass of Constantinople loomed, its walls and domes softened by distance but no less imposing.

Asia lay on the other side.

Pilgrims gathered in clusters near the edge of the docks. Some knelt. Some whispered. Others simply stared, as though the crossing itself required a measure of courage they were still attempting to assemble.

Their company disrupted that quiet tension the moment they entered the outskirts of the town.

Heads turned and conversations faltered. Even those who did not fully look felt the presence of so many mounted figures arriving at once.

Remy guided Morgan forward without haste, though his eyes moved with greater attention. The density of the crowd, the narrow paths between structures, the presence of boatsmen who cared more for coin than order, all of it required consideration. A place such as this was not inherently dangerous, but it did not take much for disorder to become something worse.

He did not need to count again.

He already had.

They were more than fifty now.

Not all armed. Not all capable. But they were present, and presence alone altered how others perceived them.

He slowed Morgan slightly until Sir Gaston drew level beside him.

“We’re attracting attention,” Remy said.

“That we are, unfortunately,” Gaston replied, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the docks. “But these people will follow no matter what. Once they heard that we were hoping to reach the holy land.”

Remy’s gaze drifted over the gathered figures behind them. Men and women alike. Some with packs slung poorly over their shoulders. Some with carts drawn by animals that looked ill-suited for the distance ahead.

“They know we’ll protect them too,” he said. “Gambling on our kindness.”

Gaston exhaled once, something close to amusement touching his expression.

“Is a knight’s burden to bear,” he said. “Though in this case, it was your squire who took them in.”

Remy turned his head slightly.

“Jehan did?”

“Aye,” Gaston answered. “Told the lot of them that they can follow, for God intends so.”

Remy said nothing for a moment.

The words themselves were simple.

The consequence was not.

He urged Morgan forward again, weaving carefully through the outer edge of the gathered crowd until he located her.

Jehan stood near one of the wagons, speaking with two older pilgrims. Her posture was composed. Her tone was measured. She did not waver in the face of their questions. If anything, she appeared to grow more certain the more she spoke.

It was a familiar pattern. Conviction did not diminish under scrutiny. It sharpened. She noticed him as he approached and inclined her head.

“Sir Remy.”

He drew Morgan to a halt.

“You took them in,” he said.

It was not a question.

She did not pretend otherwise.

“They asked,” she replied. “And it would have been wrong to refuse them.”

He regarded her for a moment, measuring not the words, but the certainty behind them.

“Do you understand what that entails?” he asked.

“I do.”

“No,” he said evenly. “You understand the intention. I am asking if you understand the consequences.”

Jehan held his gaze.

“Their lives are in our hands,” she said. “And since I allowed them to follow, it is my responsibility.”

He studied her a moment longer, then inclined his head once.

“Good words,” he said.

His gaze shifted briefly toward the wagons. Toward the additional animals. Toward the sheer number of individuals now tied, whether they understood it or not, to the pace and decisions of their company.

“But we are carrying more than words,” he continued. “Lives and goods. If we are to pass through these lands with such numbers, we will pay for it.”

Jehan’s expression did not change.

“You have coin.”

“That I have,” he said, tapping lightly against Morgan’s saddle where a portion of it was secured. “But coin is not infinite. Beyond Constantinople, I have only one contact in Antioch. If we pay every rider who demands road tax, we will be empty before we arrive.”

She crossed her arms loosely.

“You told me I was a Dame,” she said. “Not a squire.”

He regarded her without visible irritation.

“You asked me to call you a squire.”

“I would prefer it this way.”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

There was a brief pause.

“I do not know where this hostility is coming from you of late,” he added. “What I have said to make you so… prickly. But I will respect your wishes.”

She opened her mouth slightly, as though to respond.

Then closed it.

Her gaze shifted instead toward the people behind them.

Remy followed it.

A group like this could easily be mistaken for something else entirely.

From a distance, numbers obscured intent. Fifty bodies moving together, accompanied by wagons and guarded by armed men, did not resemble pilgrims.

It resembled a raiding party.

And with ten knights among them, mounted and capable, that resemblance would not be dismissed lightly. Remy adjusted his grip on the reins, his thoughts narrowing.

Morgan shifted beneath him, steady and responsive.

He trusted the horse. It could carry him, his equipment, and still answer when called to charge.

The others were not so equipped.

Most rode palfreys. Suitable for travel, but Ill-suited for war.

The destriers were led behind, reserved for moments when they would be required. When armor would be donned fully. When the illusion of a peaceful company would give way to necessity.

He considered the followers again.

Some walked.

Some rode poorly.

Some already looked weary despite having only just left the relative comfort of the city.

“They have grown accustomed,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

Jehan glanced at him.

“To what?”

“To ease,” he replied. “To the walls.”

He looked beyond her, toward the edge of the docks where the ferries rocked in slow rhythm.

“That will not last,” he said.

She did not argue.

Because she knew it was true.

The lands ahead would not offer them the same indulgence.

There would be stretches without shelter. Without reliable water. Without assurance that those they encountered would be neutral, much less kind.

Illness would come.

Exhaustion would follow.

And when it did, faith alone would not carry every one of them forward.

Remy exhaled slowly.

“I can only hope,” he said, “that when it comes, they endure.”

Jehan’s gaze hardened slightly.

“They will,” she said.

He did not challenge her.

Hope, he had learned, was often necessary.

Accuracy came later.

Behind them, Sir Gaston had begun issuing instructions. His voice carried above the others with practiced authority, organizing movement toward the ferries, ensuring that wagons were positioned correctly, that animals were managed before panic could spread among them.

Remy watched the process unfold.

“They look to you,” Jehan said after a moment.

He glanced at her.

“No,” he replied. “They look to whoever speaks loudest and stands tallest in the moment.”

“And that is you,” she said.

He did not answer.

Because there was truth in it he did not care to acknowledge. A man who appeared certain invited reliance. Even when he was not.

He guided Morgan forward again, allowing the current of movement to carry him closer to the docks. The wood beneath the horses’ hooves shifted slightly, creaking under the combined weight of animals and men.

Boatmen shouted directions.

Lines were cast.

Passengers were urged forward with impatience that bordered on aggression.

Remy observed everything.

The condition of the vessels.

The discipline of the crews.

The spacing between planks.

Details that others might dismiss became, to him, points of calculation.

A crossing here would not take long.

But long was not required for something to go wrong.

He turned his head slightly.

“Keep them close,” he said to Jehan. “No one boards without direction. No one separates from the group.”

She nodded.

“It will be done.”

He believed her.

Not because she was infallible.

But because she would attempt it with everything she possessed.

And sometimes that was enough.

Sometimes.

The line began to move.

One by one, figures stepped onto the ferries. Wagons were guided carefully, wheels aligned with narrow planks. Animals resisted, then relented under firm handling.

The water shifted beneath them, indifferent to their purpose.

Remy remained mounted a moment longer, watching. Fifty, he thought again.

More than he would have chosen.

More than he would have accepted had he been asked before the fact.

Yet here they were.

Bound together by decision, by circumstance, by something as simple and as dangerous as belief.

He urged Morgan forward at last, guiding him toward the waiting vessel.

The crossing to Asia lay before them.

***

After the ferry crossing, they did not linger.

The shoreline of Asia received them without ceremony. No marker denoted the shift beyond the narrowing stretch of water, no change in sky or wind to distinguish one continent from another. Only the subtle alteration of land beneath hoof and the gradual thinning of familiar speech signaled that they had passed into something different.

They rode toward Kartal at a steady pace.

The settlement revealed itself as a quiet collection of low stone houses scattered between orchards and narrow paths worn by habit rather than design. Goats wandered freely between enclosures, indifferent to the presence of strangers. Olive trees lined portions of the road, their leaves shifting faintly under a mild breeze that carried the scent of earth and distant water.

It was, by all appearances, unremarkable.

Children noticed them first.

They stood at the edges of doorways or paused in their play, staring openly as the company passed. Their eyes lingered not only on the knights in armor but on the sheer number of bodies moving as one. Curiosity outweighed fear, though not entirely.

Remy slowed Morgan slightly as they approached the center of the village. He observed the structure of the place. The arrangement of homes. The position of wells. The presence, or lack thereof, of defensive consideration.

There was little of it.

This was not a place accustomed to conflict.

He spoke when needed, asking for direction in the local tongue. Greek answered him, though shaped differently by region and usage. The responses were brief but not unfriendly. Hands gestured toward the road ahead. Toward Gebze.

They did not remain.

Kartal offered nothing that required their delay.

They passed through as they had arrived, a presence observed and then receding, leaving behind only murmurs and the memory of armed travelers moving with purpose.

The road widened gradually as they continued.

By the time they reached Gebze, the difference was apparent.

The settlement bore signs of greater organization. Inns stood with clearer intention. Storage structures suggested trade rather than subsistence. The movement of people carried a different rhythm. Less idle observation. More transactions.

Here, traders from deeper within Anatolia began to appear.

Remy noted the shift immediately.

The language changed.

Greek still lingered, but it no longer dominated. Turkish words carried across the air with increasing frequency. Bargaining occurred in tones and patterns distinct from those they had heard nearer the coast.

It did not trouble him.

He listened.

He adjusted.

He responded when required.

They rested there.

A company of their size could not press forward without pause. Horses required water. Men required sleep. Order required maintenance.

They made camp just beyond the more crowded portion of the settlement. Wagons were arranged in deliberate formation. Animals were tended first. Saddles loosened. Hooves checked. Water distributed carefully.

Remy moved among them without announcing his presence.

He observed.

Fatigue had not yet settled fully into the group, but its early signs were visible. Slower movements. Less attention to detail. A tendency among some of the followers to rely too heavily on the assumption that others would act in their stead.

He corrected what he needed to.

They remained for a day no longer.

When they departed, the road carried them further inland, away from the steady influence of the coast and toward terrain that bore older marks.

Nicomedia rose before them not as a thriving center, but as a remnant.

Once, it had held significance.

That much was clear even in its diminished state.

Broken columns stood where structures had long since fallen. Sections of wall remained, though time and neglect had taken their due. Stone bore the wear of centuries without consistent care.

Yet it was not abandoned.

Markets persisted. Trade did not require perfection.

Greek and Turkish voices mingled in equal measure. Olive oil and timber passed through hands that did not concern themselves with the city’s former stature. Life continued, indifferent to what had been lost.

Remy guided Morgan through the outer edge of the market, his gaze moving across the remnants.

He did not romanticize it. Decay was not noble.

It was simply inevitable.

They did not linger long within the city.

There was nothing there that required their extended presence, and the press of bodies within the market made it difficult to maintain cohesion among their numbers.

He ensured their provisions were sufficient.

Then they moved on.

Sapanca followed. Where Nicomedia bore the weight of history, Sapanca felt untouched by it.

A lake stretched beside the village, its surface calm and reflective beneath the open sky. Wooden houses stood near its edge, constructed with practical simplicity. Fishermen moved along the shoreline with quiet familiarity. Shepherds guided their animals across nearby slopes.

The air was cooler.

Pine forests bordered the area, their scent distinct and clean.

The environment did not demand vigilance in the same way.

Still, he did not allow that to dull his attention entirely.

They paused only briefly.

Water was drawn.

Animals rested.

Men spoke in quieter tones than before.

Then they moved again.

Pamukova came next.

Fertile land stretched outward, marked by fields of grain and rows of fruit-bearing trees. The soil was dark and well-tended. Irrigation, though simple, was effective.

Mud-brick homes stood in clusters, their construction practical and suited to the environment.

The people who lived there observed the company with caution.

Remy dismounted when they approached.

He did not rely on appearance alone.

He spoke in their tongue.

The effect was immediate.

Tension did not vanish, but it lessened.

He asked questions.

Simple at first.

Then more direct.

The responses came slowly, then with greater ease.

There had been others.

A company of Saracens moving not far from their current path.

The villagers spoke of them without embellishment. Simply as a presence to be avoided.

Remy listened.

He did not interrupt.

He did not dismiss.

When they finished, he inclined his head in acknowledgment.

They had been fortunate.

So far.

They remained in Pamukova for a day.

Food was shared.

Fruit and wine, simple but sufficient.

The followers, some of whom had grown too comfortable in previous stops, took to the offerings with an eagerness that bordered on excess.

Remy noted it.

He said nothing immediately.

It was not necessary.

The consequence came soon enough.

One of them fell ill.

The shift was abrupt.

Agitation replaced indulgence. The man’s behavior turned erratic. He lashed out without cause, his movements disordered and without control.

When he moved toward the villagers, intent unclear but posture threatening, Remy intervened quickly.

He stepped between them, stopping the man before escalation could take hold.

“Sit,” he said.

The command was not loud.

But it carried.

The man resisted only briefly before compliance replaced aggression.

Remy knelt.

He examined him with practiced efficiency. Temperature. Pulse. Signs of infection evident beneath the surface.

It was not possession.

Not madness.

Not anything the others might have claimed.

It was an illness.

He retrieved a tincture from his supplies and administered it

The symptoms receded gradually, not immediately.

Remy remained until he was satisfied the man would not relapse into agitation.

Only then did he rise.

They left the following day.

Taraklı awaited them further along.

The settlement clung to the hillside, its timber houses constructed with overhanging upper levels that cast shadow upon the narrow paths below. The structure of the place suggested awareness. Not fortification, but preparation.

They were met before entering fully.

A militia approached.

Armed.

Organized enough to present a unified front.

They did not attack.

They demanded their purpose. Remy did not dismount. He answered from the saddle. The exchange was brief and allowed passage.

Water for the horses. Nothing more. No invitation extended beyond necessity.

Remy accepted the terms without objection.

They did not require more.

They moved on.

Three days passed in steady travel.

The road shifted beneath them. Terrain altered subtly. The presence of larger settlements grew more likely. By the time they reached Nicaea, the signs were unmistakable.

Standing before them, was a city that had once held prominence still carried the remnants of that stature.