'Keep silent, boy. Turn around’ it ordered, in English. I obeyed. As I turned, there was a crackle of twigs and the hand left my mouth, to land upon my shoulder, thumb digging into the soft flesh beneath the collarbone. I… I did nothing. Perhaps I was too tired and hungry to resist. I do not – choose not, it may be – recall what I thought in those instants. Be done with me, mayhap: do it fast, and do not turn me over to the braying Franks for their sport. So I did not bolt or even raise my hands, but turned like a child turns to face its father. And found the grey eyes of Michael Scotus staring into mine.
'I have cut myself on your bloody knife’ he murmured, and held it up, handle foremost. I took it, as if in a dream, and he put the ball of his thumb to his lips and sucked.
'Did Walter not tell you to wait?' he asked, when he was done. It was too dark to be sure, but I fancied his lips were flecked with blood.
You? I was waiting for you?' I managed to choke out the words, but I was so dazed that I could manage no more.
'Aye’ The Scot was inspecting his thumb again. 'And I for you. For some days. Come quick, now’ he said. Walter will lead us’
The mention of Walter cut into my torpor a little, enough to rouse a pinprick of resistance. 'I will not!' I said, my voice no more than a strangled bleat.
'Do you perceive that you have a choice?' said Michael with a half-smile. You may think this is but a dream, or some horrid chance, but it is not. Come: I will explain.'
He clapped his hands twice, and the sharp reports echoed back and forth across the square until it seemed to me as if the air were full of a thousand wooden birds clacking their wings, and I cringed. But the square was still empty when I looked up and here came Walter, trotting over stiffly. 'Said you would wait for me’ he muttered, testily.
'Never mind, old friend’ said Michael Scot. 'Lead on now: we will not lose the night if we are quick.' And to my amazement I found myself walking between Walter, the lunatic Greek priest from Devon, and Michael Scotus, physician to the pope or perhaps imperial necromancer, and who could not possibly be here in Constantinople, down a steep, empty street towards the sea, which sparked and burned with reflected moonlight and with the lights of the fishing boats setting out for a night's work. We had almost reached what was left of the city wall when Walter made a sharp turn to his left, and we followed him, ducking under a low, tottering archway and through a passageway barely wider than myself, that was heavy with the soft, cloying smell of dead fig leaves, like sweetmeats left to moulder. At the end was blackness – or a door, for Walter had stopped and rapped upon it twice, then twice again, then once more. He stepped aside, and Michael nudged me on. There was a creak and a complaint of worm-eaten timber, and I went forward, for I had no choice. The darkness within was damp and silent. Then a tiny light flared very close to my face, and passed, like a firefly, across and around my head. 'Ela’ said an ancient voice. Come.
As Walter and Michael pressed in behind me, the flame moved away and, like the Easter miracle, touched into life first one candle, then another and another, until we were standing in a blaze of light. Stone walls rose around us to a great height, and far above a vault of stone curved over us like a cupped hand. We are inside the walls’ I thought, and then I saw the man who had let us in.
He was very old, and his body was twisted like a tree that has stood for many lifetimes in a merciless wind. He had a long beard of yellowish white, and he wore a black cowl. His eyes were sunk deep into his head, so deep that the sinews that held them in place showed through the withered flesh of his eyelids. He was watching me, his head cocked like a bird, and I realised that he could not straighten it. Nonetheless he smiled at me, and it was a warm and welcoming smile. He pointed at a chest that stood near the wall.
'Katsi,’ he said. Sit. And I did, for I was tired as a plough-horse, and the man’s smile had made me less afraid. Michael was busying himself over by the door, and Walter, after embracing the old man and shooting me a reproachful glance, slipped outside and shut the door behind him.
We will eat’ said Michael, in Greek. ‘Petroc, you speak the tongue of this city, do you not?' I nodded, thinking only of the food. The Scot carried a covered clay pot and a basket over to us, produced a rickety chair for the old man and a stool for himself, and sat down. The pot contained boiled beans and pig fat, tepid, bland and uncommonly good. There was bread in the basket, and some hard-boiled eggs, and an apple. We set to – or rather I set to, and my elders watched. When the beans were all but gone, and the eggs, and the bread as well, and I was taking the first sweet bite of the apple, Michael whispered something to the old Greek and nodded at me.
'Now I will talk, and you will listen. You are shocked to see me. I am not surprised. Why am I here in Constantinople? Simply told. I am on an embassy from the Emperor Frederick to John Vatatzes in Nicea. My route led me through this city. Or rather I planned it thus, for I wished to see you. Do not gawp, lad: we are not strangers, are we?'
I shook my head. Then I nodded it. 'I do not know you at all’ I told him. 'And… you are in the employ of the pope – of old Gregory. I mean… thank you for the food.' Somewhat unnerved by this unchecked flow of words, I plugged my mouth with the apple and regarded Michael. He did not seem to be planning to kill me, at least – and the old man: he seemed friendly enough.
'Oh! Did the pope send you?' I burst out again, struck by this thought. 'Or… or Baldwin?'
'No’ said Michael with a dry chuckle. 'No, and no. I am in no one's employ, as you put it: neither pope nor emperor – and I mean the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick, not that callow little kinglet, Baldwin. I am in the privileged and uncomfortable position of being a friend to both men, and I have acted on both their behalfs at times, as I am doing now for His Majesty Frederick. The good Captain does not know I am here either. It goes back to business’ he explained. 'I needed to gather some information about Genoese interests at the palace, for the Genoese are the emperor’s allies and hate Venice like the devil. It so happened that the pro-Genoese faction – for there are more factions in that place than there are rats in its walls – is made up of those men who hail from the Duchy of Athens, and chief among them was the duke's nephew, the unfortunate Rolant de la Rouche’
'So Rollo was killed on purpose? I thought it was I they intended.. ‘
'They wanted both of you dead’ said Michael, shaking his head. 'Or rather they required your death, and Rolant… perhaps it was planned, perhaps a lucky accident.' He made a revolted face. 'They are little more than children, these impecunious tyrants. Now then, when I found out about Rolant's demise I went looking for whoever else might proffer me assistance, and found Aimery de Lille Charpigny. From him I learned about your… your teetering position here, and indeed all about your impending arrest and execution.
'Aimery – he lives, do not fear, although he has a sore head – came to warn you of the Regent's intentions. He found Zoe cleaning your chambers.' 'Zoe? The chambermaid?'
'She is the daughter of a friend. You are reeling, my lad. Too much happenstance for you, I would guess. But rest assured: the only happenstance in the whole tale was that you rescued Zoe from a vile… a detestable fate. But even then, she was near your room because I had instructed her to keep an eye on you.' I blinked at him, struck utterly mute, so he went on: 'Now Zoe, who is as keen of wit as any man or woman I have ever met, could have forfeited her life when Aimery chanced upon her, for she had the temerity to question a strange Frank, in his own tongue, about the business he had with you. But it seems that your friend has goodness or sense, or perhaps both, for he told her what was to happen, and there and then they made their alliance – to save you, lad, for their different reasons’
Well then, Zoe…' I tugged at my hair in confusion. 'And Walter…'
'Ah, Walter. The poor man was a jolly crusader who came to sack this city thirty-and-more years ago. He has been trying to atone for what he saw and did ever since. Like a ghost, he has become invisible to his own people, but the Greeks
have taken him in, and he is almost one of them now. Almost. He lives, sometimes, in Zoe's household, where I have taken my lodgings, by the way. But I have wandered from the answer to your first question. Yes, I came to find you. You see, I know why you are here, and I was wondering if… if you might do me a favour’
‘What kind of favour? I mean, yes, of course. Anything’ I babbled. The apple was gone, and I had nothing now to hide behind.
‘Would you break into the Pharos Chapel?' enquired Michael lightly, as if he were asking if I would like to go out to buy a few more eggs. 'Umm’ I began, and then my tongue ran out of words.
'Because you were planning to, were you not? Have I mistaken the situation? Querini the Venetian has taken the Crown of Thorns, and will doubtless take the rest…'
'Querini has killed Captain de Montalhac!' I burst out. 'I heard him say so! My master left on a Venetian galley the day before the hunt. The crew must have cut his throat the moment they were beyond the harbour!'
Michael Scot looked at me levelly. 'I know that also. De Montalhac dead? Very possibly. Probable, in fact – I am heartily sorry for it, and for you, my son. Now I am sorry to deny you your grief, but please pay attention’ It was what the Captain would have said, I realised, so I shut my mouth.
'So. Querini has the Crown, you say. But you have an Inventarium of the chapel – I know, I have seen one, for Emperor Baldwin has been shopping it around every court in Christ's lands. Gregory has one, and Frederick, and God knows who else. Now the saintly King of France has nothing to… I was about to say buy, but that is not the word – you would know better than I. He will receive nothing from Baldwin and will give nothing in gratitude. You and your companions will be denied your commission. And so, if I were in your place, I believe I would indeed rob the chapel’
'But how did you.. ‘ I began. 'I mean, I was planning no such thing. But yes, things are how you have described them otherwise’ I told him hurriedly.
'Very politic, lad’ smiled Michael. 'Very well. Let us say I have deduced that it would be a very good idea for someone standing in your boots to rob the Pharos Chapel of certain relics sequestered there, relics that you know of but which are unknown to the Regent and indeed to the emperor himself’ 'I have no idea what you mean’ I muttered.
'Ah. So you do not possess the Inventarium of Nicholas Mesarites’ said Michael, laying a finger against the pewter stubble on his cheek. 'I thought I gave it to you, but perhaps that was someone else’
'I..’ My mind was not working fast enough. It was barely working at all. I stared past Michael's head, desperately searching for something, anything to say. Instead I saw that someone long ago had taken chalk and drawn a stick man fucking a stick woman. In another place reared a cock, gigantic and gushing, and a pair of gaping thighs. I shook my head, trying to clear it. 'It is too late’ I said at last. 'I am sorry, Sir Doctor. Do not give me back to the Franks, I beg you.'
'There is a window, quite high up.' It was the old man. He was leaning forward, hands gnarled and white-knuckled, gripping his knees, staring at me. 'Quite high up. A man could fit through it – a young man’
I remembered the window, a square of iron grillework above the head of Christ crucified. 'It is bricked up’ I said without thinking.
'No, not bricked’ said the old man. 'There was a sheet of agate there, but it broke, and I had them put a piece of slate in its place, thinking I would find more agate. I never did’
'Who are you, kyrios? I said carefully, searching the seamed face. The sunken eyes glared back at me. 'The grandfather of Zoe’ he muttered.
'This is His Eminence Nicholas Mesarites, late Archbishop of Ephesus’ said Michael, standing up and walking to the old mans side. He laid his hand gently on the twisted shoulder, and the old man smiled. 'And indeed, grandfather to Zoe Argyrina Mesaritissa’ 'But I thought’
'That he was long dead. And you thought the same about me, no doubt, for the world seems to believe me mouldering in my grave while I walk around, hale as a lamb’ said Michael. 'Such is the fate of the old: we die by reputation long before our hearts are stilled’
'But this makes no sense to me’ I protested. ‘Your Excellency Nicholas, I am ashamed, for yes, the doctor is right: I had planned to rob the chapel of those things… those holy relics which you detailed, but which Baldwin does not know he owns. I suppose I thought that King Louis might buy them – your pardon, it is simony, I know, but as you must know, in my profession we do not much bother with the niceties of canon law. I was attempting to salvage something from the ruins of my mission and of my life, and to avenge my beloved master. It seems I have failed’
'Not yet’ said Nicholas Mesarites. 'Not if you can steal the Mandylion of Edessa’ 'So are you not the pope's doctor? ' I had asked Michael Scotus. We had studied a rough-drawn map of the Bucoleon Palace that Mesarites had produced, and he had told me how I might go about entering the Pharos Chapel from outside. It did not seem easy, or indeed possible, but as nothing seemed real any more, and indeed I had begun to wonder again if I might be dead and this some purgatory designed just for me, I went along with the plan, such as it was.
'No, although I have treated him. I live between two worlds, you see’ I looked at him. I knew what worlds he meant, but then again, perhaps I did not. The air seemed to swim faintly before his face, as if I beheld him from a very great distance. Then I blinked, and he was just an old man sitting at my side.
'But I thought you were His Holiness' doctor’ I said, confused. 'It is well known that you used to be the Emperor's…' I was about to say necromancer, but prudence caught my tongue just in time. 'Astrologer’ I went on. 'But also that His Holiness recommended you for the Archbishopric of Canterbury. So…'
A shadow flitted across Michael Scot's face. Then he smiled, wearily. 'Both true’ he said. 'I was with the pope these last few years, but when the Emperor Frederick came down into Italy this year he summoned me. I go where I may serve’ he added, piously. 'Really?' I asked, surprised. Michael laughed. 'No, not really. I no longer need to act out of duty. My motive is love, alas, for I am a friend to both men, though they do not love each other.'
'I have heard that Frederick seeks an alliance with John Vatatzes in Nicea,' I said. 'He knows that this leaking tub of an empire will not last long.'
'Aha. There you have it. I should have expected no less, from the company you keep’
'And Gregory seeks the opposite, for he would like Venice to be a staunch ally in the north against Frederick’
'Right again. And why does Gregory wish to broker the translation of Byzantium's holy relics?'
'To buy the friendship of King Louis, most pious of monarchs,' I said. And to bolster up poor Baldwin.'
Again right. And why should a man ride a skittish war-horse down a busy London street of a winter's morning?'
The silence was absolute. I saw Michael Scot, and yet I did not see him. I saw Anna dead in London. I saw flames dance, and then they became bobbing rafts of ice upon the Sea of Darkness. I was not here. I was a statue, yet uncarved, nothing but silent grains within a block of stone.
'Do you know that, Petroc of Auneford? You do not, and that is as it should be. Still, the answer is on your hand.'
I looked down, as if through a poppy trance, at Anna's ring where it circled my finger.
'But it was an accident. She was kicked by a horse, good Master Michael. Do not say such things. Please do not’ You do not believe that, lad.'
'I… No!' Shaking with fear of what I was about to learn, I looked up into Michael's steady eyes. ‘I cannot believe it, and yet… I know it may be so.'
'Listen to me. When Gregory's interest is aroused, wondrous or terrible things happen. He heard that there was an unmarried – you were not married, were you? – relation of John Vatatzes of Nicea at loose in the world, and thought what a fine match she would make for his poor, weak Baldwin. He would make John into Baldwin's ally, not his deadly foe. This is a terrible thing to tell you, lad, but…'
<
br /> 'Baldwin is married,' I said, desperately, my head spinning. ‘If the pope cannot annul a marriage, who can?' 'No! That cannot be! It is… monstrous!'
'Querini found out, for he has eyes and ears in the pope's court. He could not allow Baldwin's fortunes to change. And so…'
The man at the door of the Blue Falcon, a soldier with a scarred face. I closed my eyes and saw Fulk de Grez waiting for Anna at the noon hour with his message from a place dear to her heart. We had thought Fulk's letter had hinted at Nicea, but it had not: it had spoken of that city at the centre of every Greek's world: Constantinople. Then the great horse reared up in my mind's eye, and I clapped my hands to my head to drive out the image of Anna's hair, blue-black against the Cheapside mud.
‘I could have been a corpse by now,' I told Michael at last. 'Nothing more than a skin drying on some door. I wish with all my heart that I was, and not alive to hear this.'
'But you have heard it, and you still live. Which is good. I have need of you.' ‘I do not wish to be… I wish to die,' I said.
'That is not allotted to you, not yet,' said Michael sadly. You have suffered much in the last few days. There has been a battle, an arrest. You have become another ghost in this terrible city. And you have seen your hopes dashed. Nicholas Querini carried off the Crown of Thorns under your very nose. Now I am offering you restitution.' 'There is no restitution.' 'Then what about revenge?'
What manner of revenge do you mean? Stealing back a relic for this Mesarites, if that is who he really is? Anna would not care. She detested superstition and the worship of… of icons and suchlike.'
‘I am talking about money,' said Michael Scotus, giving me a grey stare. 'More money than one man has ever seen. For you alone, or for your Captain de Montalhac. And with it the ruin of Nicholas Querini.'
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