City of God

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau didn’t trust himself to answer, instead jamming on his helmet and gathering up his shield. As he bent, he felt the ache in that rib once more. It was definitely on the mend now, but sudden movements still pained him. The medicine he had been given to mix into wine certainly helped, though Ramon had warned him against taking too much.

  ‘Come on,’ Ramon sighed and strode from the room.

  Down the corridor and the stairs they went, emerging from the doorway below. Four Warings stood there with six horses, all harnessed and saddled and ready to go. Something made the skin on the back of Arnau’s neck prickle – a preternatural feeling, and as they moved to the horses, his gaze strayed up and across their surroundings. Three men stood by a marble bench beneath a shaped tree, each in a long dark-green tunic and chaperon. Perfectly innocuous. Three men who had, in the current situation, every reason to be in the palace, standing in the garden at the edge of the courtyard and talking among themselves. And yet Arnau was almost certain that they had been watching him and then looked away as his face came up. He had not that good a memory for faces, but he would be willing to place a hefty wager that they were the three Venetians he had bumped into outside Bochard’s door. He glanced back up at their room.

  ‘I’d still have liked to take Sebastian.’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘He’s more use wheedling information out of the preceptor’s squire,’ he said quietly before greeting the big northerners in a loud, friendly voice. Octa nodded at him, and the two knights mounted and headed for the nearest palace gate with two Warings riding before them and two behind. Arnau glanced back as they left, to see the three green-clad Italians heading for the stairs to their apartments. Bochard. He almost turned to follow. Had Bochard sent them away just so he could have his clandestine meetings with the architects of this whole mess? Ramon gave him a meaningful glance and he tore his gaze from the doorway once more and turned his attention to their task. He had to acknowledge that Doukas had been thorough with his protection of the visiting Templars, and the absence of the minister had not seen that protection falter.

  They left the palace and headed south, along the crest of the Sixth Hill towards where the Mese – the great central thoroughfare that ran the length of the city – emerged through the walls. They passed one of the most impressive and sprawling monasteries in the city before emerging out into that region of greenery and fields, meeting the Mese and the next built-up area. They turned onto the great street and passed east along it on their errand for the preceptor, passing a great open-air cistern full of clear blue water.

  Arnau could not help but feel utterly hated and unwanted. Every citizen they passed threw at them a look of malevolent disgust. Several times small gangs of locals stood deliberately in their way, glaring at them and muttering imprecations in Greek until the Warings threatened them and demanded they move. Each time they did so, slowly and raking the two knights with looks of utter hatred as they went, but each time Arnau was not quite certain that they would actually move. If one group happened to decide that it was worth taking on four of the emperor’s guards in order to kill two Westerners, it might spell real trouble. The six of them were professional killers and could hold their own in combat, but numbers played a strong part in any fight. A single show of defiance by the city folk might draw support from the rest of the population. The small party of warriors might defend themselves against a dozen shopkeepers and youths only to find themselves suddenly facing a hundred angry Byzantines. Arnau could now quite easily picture how those few Frankish knights had ended up retreating into the Pisan enclave, chased thence by a huge mob.

  He shivered. They were one small act of defiance away from a repeat of that disaster, but with Templars as the prey this time. He only hoped that the presence of the Warings would be enough to put them off.

  It was the most nerve-racking hour of Arnau’s life, even given everything he had been through in his time with the Order. They walked their horses at a slow, steady pace the three and a half miles to the acropolis headland, partly to project an air of calm and peace and not spook the locals into any foolish act, and partly, Arnau suspected, to preserve the beasts’ strength in case they needed to flee. That thought was not encouraging.

  They followed the Mese across the whole city, through ancient fora with grand Roman columns and arches, colonnaded buildings that had once been pagan temples and numerous churches. Arnau was grateful that the clutter of buildings on their left hid the northern slopes of the city with their burned-out regions and empty enclaves. No one would travel through there now. The second fire, started by the Franks at the mosque, had burned for three days and destroyed much of what remained on those northern edges of the city. Fully a quarter of Constantinople had now been rendered to ash, according to reports.

  No wonder it was now almost unheard of to see a Frank in the city. They were keeping away, across the Golden Horn, fearful of triggering another riot. No wonder the locals were glaring with such hate at the symbols of the Western Church, despite the fact that the Templars had only ever tried to help the city. No wonder Arnau felt so damned nervous.

  Still, finally, they passed the end of the great hippodrome, came close to the Great Palace and reined in before the great church of Holy Wisdom, a marvel unrivalled in Arnau’s experience. As they passed through the doorway into the immense domed structure, Arnau allowed himself to shrink into the background. He had little wish to be involved in Bochard’s thefts, and was happy to leave the details to Ramon while he stood behind with the Warings and took in the grandeur of the building around them, trying his best to ignore the seething resentment on every face. It seemed the Warings were the only citizens who didn’t hate them, but then the Warings had been with them through it all, knew what part they had played and valued them accordingly.

  Right now, beyond his own companions, the Laskaris brothers and Doukas, they were the only people in Constantinople that Arnau really trusted.

  He stood looking up at the dome and around at the painted images of the saints and the Christ and sacred Mother that adorned the massive nave of the church while Ramon met some sour-faced Greek priest wearing a Western cross as though it might burn him. They spoke briefly and the priest handed over a silver box almost a foot long. The priest hesitated for a moment, unwilling to relinquish his prize, but soothing words from Ramon did the trick. As the priest let go, Arnau could see the wrench of loss in his eyes. The man hated them no less than any commoner in the street. It was making Arnau’s soul itch to be so universally despised.

  As the priest stumped disconsolately off and the Warings escorted them back to the door, Ramon carefully undid the catches and turned the tiny key in the lock, lifting the lid with reverence. Despite everything, Arnau felt a tiny thrill, even as his face soured.

  The true cross. Little more than ancient, rotted splinters, really. Four tiny slivers of rotten wood on a bed of purple silk. But those splinters had once been a beam that had held the Saviour aloft on his last day as a mortal husk before rising to stand with the Father.

  He shivered at the proximity of such an incredible treasure.

  A bitter part of him reminded him that Bochard had been so unconcerned about them that he had sent his knights to collect it rather than go himself. Was it that he was gathering such unearthly treasures in his rooms and on his ships that even slivers of the true cross were relatively unimportant? Was it perhaps that Bochard feared crossing the city? He damn well should, after all. Perhaps he felt that sending others was sensible. Was it, as he’d suspected, just a matter of getting them out of the way while he spoke to the oily Venetians? Or perhaps, the darkest part of him suggested, Bochard hoped that they would fall foul of a riot and be out of his hair for good.

  That was a nagging thought that wouldn’t go away. Arnau and Ramon were becoming an inconvenience. Had Bochard even been behind that crossbow bolt? As they left the church and mounted once more, Arnau found himself pondering his theory. Every new idea and connection fitted well,
and every one was more worrying than the last. It was all about convenience, or rather, inconvenience.

  Bochard had been troublesome. The grand master had concocted some distant task to send him on that took him far away and kept him busy. And because Bochard had nagged about needing companions, the grand master had looked at the resources available. He clearly would not send important brothers who knew the Holy Land and were already acclimatised, but two brothers from far-off Aragon who would be peripherally useful at best. Of course. And neither was expected to speak any useful tongue, either. They would be little more than pointless muscle to send with Bochard. Thus had the grand master disposed of his inconvenient preceptor with two of the less important brothers for his campaigns.

  But Bochard had taken his mission far more seriously than anyone expected. He felt he had much to prove. And once he had realised that his companions were not only relatively bright, but actually spoke Greek, he had tried to keep his true purpose hidden. Then, when that had no longer been possible, he had tried to keep them contained and quiet, using the rule of obedience to keep them in line. But no matter what the preceptor tried, Ramon and Arnau kept getting themselves into trouble.

  Kept threatening Bochard and his mission.

  God above, but Arnau was more than half convinced. The preceptor was mad, despite Ramon’s protests. Perhaps he was not behind the crossbow, though. That was maybe going too far, but the man’s Frankish friends were a different matter entirely. And sending the pair off on a simple collection task through the dreadfully dangerous boiling pot of a city? Did he truly hope that they would fall victim to a riot and stop causing him difficulties? Was the man willing to sacrifice such a relic just to get rid of them?

  He couldn’t broach the subject with Ramon of course. The older knight would not countenance such a notion. And it did sound far-fetched, but the more Arnau pictured Bochard’s puce face as he ranted, and his avaricious glee as he beheld his hoard, the more he became convinced.

  For half an hour of the ride back he tried to talk himself out of the idea, though he failed repeatedly. He jumped as one of the Warings suddenly held up a warning hand and yanked his steed to a halt. The others did the same sharply in response. Arnau peered ahead. At first, he could see nothing, but he could hear it. A similar sound to what he had heard near the Saracen mosque. His heart beat fast at the realisation.

  Moments later, half a dozen Franks emerged from a side street, brandishing swords. Behind them came a huge crowd of Byzantines with makeshift weapons, shouting angrily. Arnau’s hand went to his sword hilt, but Octa shook his head. ‘Do not fuel their fire.’ Arnau let go and grasped his reins tight, noting wryly that Octa’s warning did not seem to apply to their escort, as the Warings all unslung and brandished weapons.

  The Franks were cornered against some building, swinging wildly, trying to hold the mob back. The citizens were hesitating, each reluctant to be the first to enter the arc of swinging steel. The stand-off would not last long, though.

  Arnau felt sick as one of the Franks spotted the men on horseback with their red crosses, accompanied by imperial guards theoretically loyal to the regime who had allowed the Crusaders in. Imploring arms jerked forth and, in a moment, as most of them continued to swing and hold off the mob, several started to shout at the Templars desperately, beseeching them to help.

  Ramon’s face was stony and bleak. Arnau could see how conflicted he was. At one and the same time, the older Templar wanted to save fellow Christians, but he also wanted to let the Byzantines have their vengeance for what had been done to them. He took a deep breath. ‘Continue to stand down, Vallbona.’ Arnau nodded. He had no desire to help the ravaging, savage Franks anyway. Besides, he couldn’t imagine the Warings letting them interfere.

  ‘Can you order them to disperse?’ Ramon quietly asked Octa.

  The Waring snorted. ‘I can order the wind not to blow, but it will not listen.’

  Thus it was that with the bitter taste of powerlessness in his mouth Arnau sat astride his horse and watched as the first citizen moved, cut down easily by Frankish steel. He was replaced instantly with another, then another. The Byzantines were butchered mercilessly but suddenly there were too many of them and they were within the sword arc, lunging and swiping. Octa shook his head, gestured to the right and led them into a side street. Arnau watched as they left the Mese, seeing the first Frank fall beneath a flurry of blows. He never saw them die, but the sound of their demise as the small party skirted around through side streets would come back on more than one occasion to ruin a night’s sleep for Arnau.

  For the sake of safety, they moved down the northern slope until they emerged from a ruinous street to the burned wreckage of the city’s Perama region. Here and there, the more concerned citizens had begun to clear off and renovate the surviving walls of various churches, reconstructing the houses of God that had been a central facet of Byzantine life for a millennium, but still the majority of the region lay as black and grey bones.

  The rest of the journey was unpleasant but uneventful, and on their return, Arnau made good use of the palace bathhouse to clean off the dust and ash of their journey before the next service. During that mass he performed every action expected of him, but his eyes never once left Bochard. The man seemed so innocent and pious here in church that Arnau at last began to doubt his earlier suspicions. Bochard was a Templar. He would never have reached the rank he had if he’d had such a diabolical, murderous streak. No, Arnau’s notion had been fanciful. Bochard had simply delegated work, and the crossbow bolt had come from some dubious Frankish lord… or Venetian? Memories of those three silent, attentive, green-clad foreigners drifted back.

  The preceptor joined them for the various services in the liturgy over the following days, in between which times he negotiated with politicians, nobles and religious figures of the city. Since his purpose was now open and he had nothing to keep secret, the local priests being subservient to Rome and the Crusaders controlling the land, Bochard no longer had to leave the Blachernae to go about his business, with other folk coming to him instead. At least those three Venetians seemed notable now by their absence.

  Summer’s roll into autumn did nothing to improve matters. As September gave way to October, the division between the seething and rebellious Byzantines and the Franks and their allies continued to widen. The Byzantines were repressed in their own city and in the name of their own blind, insane emperor and his Frank-loving pup of a son. The Crusaders continued to consider themselves the de facto masters of the city and its empire, though they would rarely dare cross the water and pass into the city. Far too many Franks had died at the hands of angry mobs now. There had been purges in the name of the emperor and the Doge of Venice after such incidents, but it was pointless, for they strung up a few random citizens, never knowing who was truly responsible, and the Templars watched every punishment drive the citizens further into rebellious hatred. The green-clad Venetians began to visit Bochard again, though now they came to the palace through the gate in the walls, avoiding the city’s streets entirely, and in greater strength, rarely numbering fewer than eight and all heavily armed. Arnau habitually avoided them. His spine itched when he found them watching him.

  Late in October Arnau and Ramon spent a nervous few hours abroad in the city once more, helping Franks who sneered at them load Bochard’s latest haul on board a Venetian ship called La Figa to take it to ‘safety’. The presence of green-clad Venetians all around them felt more oppressive and threatening than anything they had felt in the battle on the walls. Arnau vowed silently to himself that it was the last time he would assist in such sickening and blatant theft, no matter what the preceptor called it. November came around with a turn in the weather, bringing a chill to the air and rain in vast swathes that suppressed the ash clouds at last, but which turned the northern shores of the city into a vast swamp of grey sludge, the rain carrying the remnants of a burned city down the slopes to pool in streets close to the walls. The more Arnau
saw, the more he felt that his prediction of Hell on earth was coming true.

  On the morning of the eleventh of November, news arrived that the emperor’s force had been spotted north of the city. Unwilling to risk the city’s violent streets, Arnau and Ramon strode the three miles along the land walls to the Golden Gate, which seemed certain to be the place the emperor would enter the city, since it had long been the gateway to the heart of Byzantium for victorious emperors.

  Sure enough, that afternoon Alexios the Fourth passed between the great golden gates under the decorative triumphal arch to a fanfare like some Roman hero of old, flags waving and gleaming knights in a hundred colours in his wake. Behind them, protected by the comparatively dour imperial army, came carts laden with loot, ripped from the desperate clinging hands of Byzantine peasants and provincials. Having impoverished the city to pay the Doge of Venice, the young emperor had now repeated the process with the hinterland. Arnau found himself wondering whether even now they had managed to cover the massive sum promised. He doubted whether, even if they had, the doge would relinquish control so readily.

  Inside the walls, the leaders of the army turned from the long main street and began to pass through wide connecting roads and then out into the open farmland enclosed by the walls, heading for the imperial residence in the Blachernae.