At the other side of the palace, on the land walls, they watched with fascination as small military units continually departed the city in groups of no more than a dozen, drawing no undue attention from the authorities. No one could see the gathering army, but it would be less than two miles away, beyond the hills and close to the upper waters of the Golden Horn.
The Laskaris were preparing well and had planned everything to within a hair’s breadth.
Having spent much of the day watching the subtle preparations, the two knights returned to their rooms in time to perform the service for vespers. Outside the sun sank behind the slope of the Sixth Hill and the city burst into the light of a thousand twinkling lamps. The temperature dropped, but the wind kept up its pace and the clouds remained high – light scudding fleeces with no threat of the rain that Ramon had worried might just be the thing to ruin the entire plan.
Two hours passed in tense silence as Sebastian joined them once more for an evening meal of which none of them managed more than a few bites. Arnau was surprised at how tense he was. He had prepared for battle numerous times and was capable of adopting a stoic calm in the face of a coming storm, and this was not even his fight. Indeed, he could not draw his blade for it, as their vows prevented violence against the Franks, and the Venetians were to be targeted only with burning ships. All he would do was watch impotently as Laskaris’s plans unfolded, yet he felt more nervous than he usually did before a fight.
The last service of the night, compline, was a muted affair. The knights went through the form appropriately, but the focus for both men was on silent and very avid prayer.
An hour later, they threw on their cloaks against the chill wind and left the palace before Bochard could find them and interfere. Passing from the palace walls smoothly onto the Golden Horn defences, they made their way along those ramparts, heading for the harbours.
As they neared the Neorion, the signs of what was to come were there for those who knew. The abandoned foreign enclaves, where they remained standing and untouched by fire at least, were occupied now by men. They gathered in numbers behind the walls, ready. The figures on the parapet remained few, for fear of alerting the watching Venetians. The ships in the harbour were ready.
Arnau, Ramon and Sebastian stood on the top of the Neorion Gate as the night’s inky blackness deepened. They could see the lights of the Frankish camp spread out over the slope, unaware of what would face them in the morning. The Venetian fleet sat at its jetties across the water not much more than a quarter of a mile away. Arnau’s attention was drawn to the brazier close by. Sparks leaped from it in the strong wind and hurtled from the wall, drifting down like falling stars to vanish above the black waters of the Golden Horn. Arnau shivered at such a portent of what was to come.
They stood for almost two hours on the wall top, watching, the tension increasing by the minute, especially in the last half-hour as the houses behind the walls emptied of their population, who poured down through the narrowly opened gate and into the Neorion harbour. In a matter of minutes, as the day drew to an end on the stroke of midnight, the sails of two dozen vessels were suddenly unfurled, men directing and even rowing the incendiary nightmares to the harbour entrance, where the entire small fleet caught the wind in bellying sails and burst forth with impressive speed.
Arnau watched, heart racing, as brave men ignited the ships and threw themselves over the sides, swimming for the small six-man rowing boats that waited to ferry them back to shore. In the space of mere minutes silent, skeletal vessels by the dockside had become floating infernos, carried across the water by a strong prevailing wind.
It was going to succeed. Arnau could see it. The ships were perfectly on target. One or two at the periphery would drift of course, but it would only take a few barging into the midst of the Venetian ships to set the whole fleet alight.
Arnau stood tense, watching the golden bonfires spitting sparks and belching black smoke as they raced across the water. The Venetians would not have time to move their ships, that was certain.
Galata was bursting into life now. The Venetians were racing for their ships, and beyond them there was increased activity in the Frankish camp. All seemed to be proceeding according to plan. The Venetians could never move their ships in time, and the Franks were awakening with urgency.
Ramon straightened and crossed himself.
‘And I saw a glassy sea mingled with fire,’ he intoned breathlessly, ‘and them that overcame the beast and his image and the number of his name, standing above the glassy sea, having the harps of God; and singing the song of Moses, servant of God, and the song of the lamb, and said Great and wonderful be thy works, Lord God Almighty; thy ways be just and true, Lord, King of Worlds. Who shall not dread thee, and magnify thy name, for thou alone art merciful?’
Arnau shivered. The revelation of Saint John the Divine.
‘The end of days,’ he said, his voice wavering.
‘Quite.’
But if the lord was merciful, then it apparently was not going to be that for the Byzantines. Arnau watched, bitterness rising into his throat. The Venetians were not even attempting to move their ships, but they were creatures of the sea, and nothing the Greeks could do might faze them on the water. Even faced with the horror of fire ships, the Venetians worked feverishly. Men flowed across the ships at the extremity, where the true danger lay, taking up spars and poles. There they reached out over the sides of their vessels.
The wind was strong, and for a moment Arnau thought the plan might still work, for the flaming vessels could not be stopped, but the men with poles in every case managed to deflect the approaching bows, turning the ships so that they drifted into the Venetian vessels at a quarter angle, robbed of sufficient impact to sink their target. There the gangs of men worked hard, those with spars heaving the burning vessels back away from their own hulls, while others threw buckets of water over any spot where the fire began to take hold.
Still, there was incredible danger. Perhaps two thirds of the Byzantine fleet had sailed true. Those that had not now floundered on the shore, burning out. Those that made it, though, were still a threat. One enemy merchant vessel was already alight. The wind kept pushing the Greek vessels at their targets and the Venetians had to work constantly with their poles to keep the burning hulks away and to extinguish any fires caused by flying sparks.
But the danger began to pass. The ships’ sails burned away fast enough that the pressure of the wind diminished rapidly until there was nothing left driving the vessels against the Venetian fleet. Then Arnau realised what the enemy were about. Dozens and dozens of small Venetian skiffs flooded around the edge of the near disaster. As they neared the great burning ships, long ropes and grapples were thrown out. Though it spelled doom for the assault, Arnau could not help but be impressed as, calm as anything, the Venetians anchored the burning hulks with a dozen grapples each, put muscle to oars and began to tow the danger away from their fleet, assisted by the pushing of men with spars. In less than a quarter of an hour the Byzantine fire ships were already burning out and were far from endangering any other vessel, towed out into the fast waters of the Bosphorus where they were released to be carried by the strong waters down past the city to be rendered to ash in the deep of the sea beyond.
Still, despite everything having so unexpectedly and so resoundingly failed, the Templars continued to watch as the single Venetian ship that had caught fully alight – a fat-bellied merchant – was towed out into the waters and allowed to burn away out of sight of the rest of the fleet.
‘I am astounded,’ Arnau breathed. ‘These Venetians must be part fish and half fireproof.’
‘The days of Byzantine naval eminence are gone,’ Ramon said quietly. ‘Witness the rise of the Venetian monster, more at home in the water than on land. What you are watching, Vallbona, is the future.’
‘Heavens, but I hope not.’
‘Seven angels having seven plagues went out of the temple, and were clothed with a sto
le clean and white and were girded with golden girdles about the breasts. And one of the four beasts gave to the seven angels seven golden vials full of the wrath of God, that liveth into worlds of worlds. And the temple was filled with smoke of the majesty of God, and of the virtue of him and no man might enter into the temple till the seven plagues of the seven angels were ended.’
‘I wish you would stop quoting Saint John,’ Arnau grunted. ‘I prefer to hope that the end of days is some way off yet.’
‘I fear we may be living through it,’ Ramon replied.
‘There is still a chance. Yes, the Venetians are untouched, but they alone represent only so much danger. The Franks are in disarray, see. Their camp seethes and lights abound. No matter that the fire ships failed, when the army arrives the Franks will be tired. Constantine Laskaris can still win a land battle and sue for peace on his terms.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ramon replied. ‘But unless we are willing to share the Franks’ exhaustion, we had best away to our beds for a few hours. We shall perform matins before sleep and return to the walls before dawn to watch what happens before lauds prayer.’
Dispirited, Arnau waved Sebastian along with them, but the young Greek shook his head and remained where he was, peering over the water at the disaster they had witnessed.
‘Leave him. Let him mourn,’ said Ramon quietly, and they turned, taking two of the Warings with them and leaving the others with Sebastian. Arnau started as he spun. He’d not heard or seen the people approaching, so intent had he been on the activity across the water. The attack had come to the attention of the people of Constantinople, and hundreds, perhaps even thousands of figures had emerged from their slumber and hurried down to the waterside where they had flooded through the gates to stand on the shoreline and watch the very embodiment of the rebellious spirit that had been building in their hearts for months now.
The two knights with their bearded northern escort trudged disconsolately between crowds of bitter, horrified citizens, along the wall and back to the palace. Entering the building where their rooms were, the two men prepared themselves for their devotions, though their swiftly sought serenity fled once more as they opened the door of their apartment to find Preceptor Bochard seated at their table with his arms folded.
‘Did you know about this?’
Ramon nodded. ‘If you refer to the Byzantine attempt to dislodge the heathen Venetians, then yes, Master.’
Bochard’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘That they are still under excommunication is neither here nor there. I have warned you not to become involved.’
‘We were in no way involved in the planning or execution of Laskaris’s assault, Preceptor. We simply observed events from the wall top.’
Bochard looked unimpressed, but nodded irritably, robbed of what he’d felt certain to be a legitimate target for his anger. ‘When you are aware of such matters it is our duty to apprise the emperors of them.’
Ramon shook his head. ‘Surely when you order us not to become involved, that includes the spreading of rumours around the court, Master? Besides, with the Laskaris and probably Doukas all being aware, we had no reason to know the emperors were unaware.’
We did know, Arnau thought, but we had no reason to know. Lord, but Ramon had a lawyer’s mind.
‘Hmmm. Well the time for such foolishness is over. Laskaris will find there are consequences for doing such things, and his brother is already under arrest for attempting to leave the city and lead an illegal army. The officers supporting him have all been arrested and that force returned to its rightful place in the city.’
Arnau sighed. It was over, then. One brief flare of defiance, snuffed by Venetian ingenuity and imperial cowardice.
‘No man might enter into the temple till the seven plagues of the seven angels were ended,’ Ramon repeated.
‘What was that?’
‘An excerpt from the scriptures, Master. An apt one, I thought.’
Those questing eyes remained on Ramon, then slipped to Arnau. ‘Stay uninvolved. Keep quiet. Our work here is almost done. Soon we will watch the rule of Rome take root in this place, and we will leave in triumph for Acre. Do not do anything to jeopardise that.’
Rising, Bochard glared at them both for a long moment before striding from the room.
‘You know what will happen when news of those arrests and of the army’s failure to march gets out in the city, don’t you,’ Ramon said quietly as he shut their apartment door once more.
‘What?’
‘Remember Alexios the Third? He led out an army to the cheers of his people and then led them back in again without engaging. Within a day he was fleeing through a city gate with all he could carry. The court and the Byzantine people all turned against him. Constantine is popular. And the people need hope and something to cheer. When they find out that the one chance the Laskaris gave them was snuffed out by the emperors? A Frank-supported boy and a blind, bitter old man? Ask yourself out of which gate those two will flee. And who will be next.’
Arnau nodded slowly. ‘A coup, you think? A change in the emperor again.’
‘I think it has been inevitable since the day the previous emperor ran. This joint rule of puppets and madmen was never going to last. It is the job of a council of nobles to select the next emperor if that happens. It is my great hope that they choose one of the Laskaris. Both have connections with the Angelids. Both are viable, and either might still stand the chance of saving this place.’
Arnau nodded. Being a Waring guardsman in Constantinople must be difficult, vowing utter loyalty to a throne that changed occupants like a waterwheel. It was clear to him why they were not required to wear the blazon of the emperor’s family. The seamstress’s bill would be enormous.
Chapter 17: The Byzantine Reaction
January 25th 1204
In the event, the young Latinised emperor Alexios and his blind, frail father seemed to cling on to power with their fingernails over the following days. Despite being challenged by the nobles of the council, they remained in place, becoming ever more reclusive. The two emperors retreated into the safety of the Blachernae’s main palace block where none but the imperial family, their guards and any invited guest – of whom there were now none – would go. There, the Waring Guard gathered in force, watching every window and every door, for Alexios and Isaac both were well aware of how precarious was the position of an emperor deemed by his people to have failed.
Indeed Doukas, still the Templars’ main source of news, had informed them that in the wake of Laskaris’s action, Alexios had sent a desperate message to the Franks. He had not only apologised unreservedly for what he called a ‘cowardly attack’, but begged the Franks to send a force of knights to the palace to help protect him. Perhaps it was a sign of the panicked state of mind of the young emperor that he felt he could not even rely upon the staunch Waring Guard. He had even offered the heads of the two Laskaris brothers to the Franks in mollification. The Franks had not replied. Instead they had begun to prepare for war once again, as had the Venetians.
Power seemed to be slipping away from the two men, though, despite their tenacity. They might wear the robes of emperors and sit upon thrones, but their influence spread only as far as the walls of the Blachernae, and sometimes not even that far. The city itself was now being administered by the council of the nobles, lacking the three figures that Arnau felt were most competent to do so. Constantine and Theodoros Laskaris languished in an extended tower, at the wall edge of the palace complex, known ominously as the ‘dungeon of Anemas’, and Doukas, though he made his position known in council meetings, seemed to remain apart from them to a larger extent.
Challenged upon his non-participation a few days ago on one of his semi-regular visits, Doukas had turned a resigned and unimpressed expression upon them.
‘The council of nobles is failing every bit as much as their emperors. I cannot sit in on their verbose meanderings, for it makes my flesh itch to listen to them debate the most unimporta
nt of matters or argue over whose lineage is the most acceptable while the city faces the peril it does.’
Arnau and Ramon had nodded sagely. Somehow those tidings surprised neither of them.
‘Did you know that it is universally believed among the nobles that the time has come for a change in leadership?’
Again, the pair nodded. They had not heard as much, but had increasingly assumed that to be the case now for weeks, ever since the failed assault on the ships. Every day had seen the emperors withdraw in paranoia that little bit more, while the city’s nobles took up the reins of state. Such a situation clearly could not be maintained for long. Moreover, since the only action either emperor had taken in all that time on behalf of the city was a grovelling apology to the Franks, the imperial line looked doomed to change. Isaac and the young Alexios, however, seemed determined to hold out to the last, not to run in the night like their predecessor.
‘Three days now,’ Doukas had said. ‘Three days the council has debated over a successor. Even if they can settle on a name, they cannot be sure how the Warings will take it, of course. Remember that the guard are by oath loyal to their emperor beyond all else.’
Arnau’s eyes had slid then in curiosity to Redwald, the hulking Angle of the Waring Guard who had hovered at Doukas’s shoulder, whether prisoner or minister, throughout all the months they had been in the city. Redwald, clearly, was one of very few Warings not currently cramming the emperors’ palace home. Moreover, he did little more than narrow his eyes a little at the words of the minister.
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