The Emperor Awakes

by Alexis Konnaris

  It was for the promise Zozo showed that Antonios was considering whether the time was right for initiating her into the Order of Vlachernae.

  Zozo was looking at the ships dotted around the harbour when a blinding light caught her attention.

  Standing apart from the other naval vessels in the harbour was an impressive yacht with its purple and gold sails reflecting the sunlight and appearing like a shining beacon or a lighthouse, even in the daylight visible from a great distance. Those were the colours of the House of Vendis, a prominent Greek family from Alexandria.

  Zozo saw a launch speeding away from the yacht coming towards the shore. Inside the launch, unable to sit down, Kostas Vendis was standing proud, like the head of an invading force looking at his prize, at the city spreading in front of him, anxious to get to his meeting with Antonios; a crucial meeting for the fate of the Order of Vlachernae and their respective and partly shared business interests.

  Kostas Vendis was one of those people who was constantly underestimated, because he was short and stocky and had a gentle, innocent face, but one that belied the steely determination and sharpness of mind that lay underneath that calm veneer. His enormous presence was impossible to ignore. You underestimated him at your peril.

  Kostas was a master of understatement. His uncanny ability to second-guess and outwit his rivals was second to none; combined with his ability to move seemingly immovable obstacles and make things happen proved to be an unbeatable combination, an indispensible ally. Kostas was only thirty-two years old, but he had incredible wealth and power, the gilded legacy of generations of brilliant ancestors.

  Zozo saw the launch reach the waterfront. Her father expected her to be at the meeting. She had to get back. She got up and started to gather her things. She hated to stop the children from their games. They seemed to be having fun. Their laugh and teasing rang far and loud.

  ‘Come on, it’s time to go back.’

  None of the children made any attempt to gather their things and pleaded with her to let them stay.

  ‘Please, Zozo. Can’t we stay a bit longer?’

  ‘We’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.’

  The children lowered their eyes, and, reluctantly, began to carelessly throw their things in their bags, disappointment disfiguring their normally carefree faces.

  * * *

  Nikitas knocked on the door of the Symitzis house in the St. George Quarter of the city near the harbour. He was looking forward to the wide smile and hug of Mrs Manto, Antonios’ housekeeper, nanny, cook and a multitude of other things, too numerous to name.

  The door opened and Mrs Manto upon seeing Nikitas could not contain her excitement, her clothes evidently straining and ready to burst at the seams. A huge smile broke across her face and she squeezed him in a big hug and held him there for a while.

  She had raised him, and his two brothers, Manuel and Stephanos, and they were all three like sons to her. It was tough times then when their mother, Zoe, was striving to survive and establish herself in a maledominated world.

  Zoe was the matriarch of the family, another strong woman in a long line of strong women at the helm of the Symitzis clan. Besieged by a weakened but still powerful Sultan sitting in Constantinople and distributing rough and unpredictable justice through his loyal advisors, and carefully sidestepping attempts by other ambitious members of the Pallanians to trip her, spurred as they were by their often ancient traditions and perceptions frozen in stone, her life was full of constant excitement. But she stood strong and coped with it all with remarkable determination and grace.

  She was a fiercely loyal person to her family and those around her who she thought deserved it. She was a fearsome businesswoman of great intelligence and pragmatism who always carried herself with an innate elegance and quiet but steely confidence.

  She had to combine the roles of head of the Symitzis family businesses, head of the Order of Vlachernae and mother during the few free precious minutes left to her.

  She succeeded beyond her wildest dreams and the low expectations of many of her conservative rival contemporaries who, initially, saw her as a nuisance, an upstart, just for being a woman, but who were soon relieved of any such delusions.

  They started to have a growing respect, if not love or fondness for her, helped, no doubt, by the fact that they were fearful of her power. Even they were also soon to succumb to her power, be added to her list of, if not to the extreme of being hard-lined ardent fans, then at least admirers, and accept her as their leader.

  However, even during all that upheaval and the constant challenges to her authority (always easily stamped out with common sense and a dose of necessary ruthlessness), she spent time with her sons who did not grow to resent her for her flying visits and often assumed indifference. They all adored her and respected her and looked up to her throughout their lives.

  But Smyrna and her brother Antonios’ home was the safest place for them to call home, at least in their early years. Later they would not have a home at all. The places of their campaigns and travels would each be their temporary home.

  Mrs Manto had as big a place in Nikitas’ heart as his biological mother, Zoe. He remembered her sitting him down on the floor or on her lap telling him stories of extraordinary adventures. Mrs Manto released Nikitas, stood back and took a long hard look at him, admiring the man he had become, her love for him animating her face and emanating a mother’s warmth.

  ‘My dear boy, I have pourekia for you in the kitchen, fresh out of the oven. Antonios is out in the garden tending to his precious roses. You can take him some pourekia and have a chat before Kostas arrives. His yacht has been spotted in the harbour.’

  Nikitas lost no time and gave his feet wings on his way to the kitchen. The intoxicating smell of the freshly-baked pourekia was already pulling him by the nose. Mrs Manto followed and observed him hungrily gobble down a few pourekia, smiling to herself.

  He then rushed for a glass of water before he put a few in a small plate and made his way back to the entrance hall, all the while his thoughts turning to the indomitable and irreplaceable Mrs Manto.

  Mrs Manto was a treasure. She exuded such warmth, drama and excitement that you could not help but be swept away into that particular rollercoaster. How could anyone dare ignore her, and not succumb to her vocal, but, more often than not, silent demand for attention, a demand which was not the result of arrogance or vanity but of the best intention, as she always had the best interests of those she cared for at heart. She filled any room she entered with her presence, an effect born of the impression of a permanently animated appearance, of perpetual motion, even when she was standing still, her eyes contantly watchful, missing nothing.

  She had strong opinions about everything and would immediately take charge. It was not an arrogant thing with her. She was decisive and never dithered. She would never shy away from responsibility and it was a result of her loyalty and willingness to resolve any issue troubling her family.

  When she was present, others involuntarily deferred to her, a dominance born of her strong character as well as her actual physical presence. She was a generously-built woman with strong arms from all the manual work she had undertaken throughout her hard life. The air her bulk displaced choked the breath out of you. Funnily, it made you think that you had done something wrong. But she soon after filled your lungs to bursting with love and warmth.

  She was big in stature and big at heart. Her heart was a big enough place not only for her family but the world at large.

  Mrs Manto had a strong maternal instinct. She watched like a hawk over the people she loved, over her family. When necessary she would bare claws and teeth to protect them, like a tigress with her cubs. She had dedicated her life to looking after this family, spoiling her dear ones rotten.

  There was proper tough love there though. They would fight a losing battle against her obstinacy and immovability. But her advice would always without fail be sound.

  Yet her loved ones w
ould not admit it to her face; how could they endanger her soul and massage her ego, how could they resist the temptation to make her perspire a little, just for the fun of it? But she would never be fooled. She always saw through these pitiable little schemes.

  She was a master of dry wit. Complements would receive a smile and with a raised eyebrow would be instantly demolished by a self-deprecating comment. Any expectation of her being puffed up by sweet words would fall on deaf ears and soon deflate. She had seen too much in her life to be taken in by the magic of such words.

  * * *

  Nikitas walked across the entrance hall and out onto the patio, hungrily and contentedly munching on a delicious poureki. God, that woman was a miracle-worker. He wanted to plant a million kisses on those precious hands that had given them all so much over the years.

  He stood on the steps leading down the patio to the garden and let himself drown in the riot of colours and smells besieging his senses. He was paralysed on the spot feasting on this vision of paradise on earth. He had no wish to let this dreamlike state go. He closed his eyes to prolong the good feeling.

  The disc of the sun was high above in the clear blue sky, shining bright and hot, and drenching all below in a vibrant hew that brought to life even the dullest of flower and leaf, the humblest of petal and grass.

  He saw Antonios engrossed in his roses. Nikitas broke his reverie and started to walk towards Antonios.

  Suddenly, as if sensing something, Antonios got up and came face to face with a vision he had not seen for some time. He stood there for a moment in disbelief. “It must be a mirage, an illusion. I’ve been standing in the sun for far too long”, he thought out loud, but got no reply.

  Nikitas waited. Antonios shifted focus, but the vision was still there. He wondered whether this was the first sign of the onset of senility or cataracts, the cursed or blessed gift of old age.

  His face broke into a smile and he gathered Nikitas tightly into his arms and then released him.

  ‘Nikitas, how long have you been standing there? Have you been spying on me? Come and have a look. Tell me what you think. You know, I planted these after you last left and just look at them now. They’ve only just began blooming, as if to welcome you back home.’

  ‘You’ve always been a magician of nature. I don’t think they just did it by themselves.’

  ‘Lazy people find mystery and complexity where there is none. Now, tell me. How’s your mother and how is her Alexandrian journey going?’

  ‘She’s well. She’s pleased with progress. And Alexandria is one of her favourite cities. She’s thrilled to have been able to combine business with pleasure. She’ll be back next week. She sends her love. Antonios, why are you still wasting your time on those roses? You know as well as I do that soon this city and your beloved roses will turn to ashes. You should get out whilst there’s time. I wish I could say you should warn others, but I don’t think that’s feasible. They’ll think you are mad and try to lock you up.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Everything has been arranged. We will be out in time.’

  Displaced for a second time, Antonios thought. Forever condemned to be nomads. And we are again at the same juncture. Another place. Another home. For how long, he wondered, this time.

  ‘I will not ask where you will be going, because the fewer people know the better. Antonios, you know you cannot take the children with you. You have to take this opportunity and split the family to confuse the scent for our enemies.’

  ‘Yes.’ Antonios had another reason for wanting to go his own way. The protection of the explosive information he had in his possession and for which he was the last guardian. He had to be careful not to end up taking that secret to a premature grave.

  * * *

  Here the account, the echo of almost ninety years ago, stopped abruptly. The page looked as if it had been violently torn. Elli felt disappointed at the fatally wounded account. She turned to the next page. What she did not know was that the missing part was hidden well away in the possession of her brother Iraklios.

  Across town, Iraklios was by a weird coincidence staring at that torn page. The Cappadocian discovery had triggered the memory and led him back to re-read the document away from prying eyes. His memory somehow was not enough and wanted to be shaken into revealing its solid form, in words at least.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sultan’s Palace

  Edirne (Adrianoupolis), Eastern Thrace

  24th April 1453 A.D.

  The roses were blooming. The fragrant air wafted through the open windows and intoxicated anyone who cared enough to dare and open his nostrils to the world around him.

  The Sultan was walking through the enchanting gardens, singing to himself, saying little prayers and contemplating and praising himself on his achievements so far at his tender age. Then his mind travelled back to his gardens that he adored and was immensely proud of.

  He paused, looked to the sky and spoke out aloud, “Babylon be damned. These will last for a thousand years and they will be moved to our new capital, soon, yes, very very soon”.

  The location was Adrianoupolis or Edirne in Turkish, capital of the Ottoman Empire since 1326 A.D. when it was taken from the Byzantine (East Roman) Empire. Before that, Bursa was capital from 1299 until 1326 A.D. when Osman I moved it to Edirne.

  The glorious sun scattered its rays around in a crazy dance from rose petal to petal. The dizzying beauty of the play of light briefly distracted the Sultan from his thoughts.

  The Sultan was Mehmed II, and he was twenty-one years old, as young almost as Alexander the Great when he embarked on his great campaign of conquest of the Persian Empire. And like Alexander the Great before him, about one thousand eight hundred years later his aim was the conquest of another empire. He was a man of naked ambition, a man in a hurry who did not suffer fools gladly. In that he had a lot in common with Alexander who was his idol and with the Emperor who was now his prisoner.

  The Sultan wanted Constantinople for himself. He wanted to crash that empire that stood alone against him, resisting his loving embrace, a fly in his eye, the city that was cherished as the Eastern civilisation’s cradle and shining light, treated by its keepers as its owners, as being theirs by divine right.

  Why hadn’t he taken the city by now? That was because he needed something. Or was it that he was superstitious and believed that the city had to be taken on a particular date, the one that was ordained. He went along with the mullahs, because it suited him.

  The Empire of Constantinople was built on the same premise. All wars were fought in the name of God. All was justified in the name of God. And when something went wrong that was punishment from God. God could do no wrong.

  But then again the strong belief in God was what sustained the Empire in its glorious and dark days. It was an impetus for a flourishing culture for the arts and for glorious architecture.

  The Sultan felt that his long campaign, his life’s work, was almost at an end. Soon it would be time to start consolidating his Empire and organising its administration.

  The only thing marring his undoubtedly upcoming victory was the disappearance of the child, the heir and a future constant threat.

  He was quite pleased with his favourite pet in its gilded cage. It was time for his new pet to have the pleasure of his visit and a snack.

  He walked along the azalea path down to the summer hut. But hut it was not. It was a magnificent two-storey building with twenty-two rooms, that gave the impression that it was floating on the glorious gardens surrounding it, and it seemed as if it was about to fly away.

  He went up the steps leading from the rose garden and entered the mosaic hall of the eleven fountains. He crossed the hall, went under an arch and entered a brightly lit room full of birdsong from the seventy-two nightingales set in cages around the room.

  In the middle was a large gilded cage and inside was a man looking surprising clean and healthy and pensive, considering his confined condition. The Sultan treated his
hostage with respect.

  ‘Ah. Inshalla may you live for a hundred years my dear.’

  Konstantinos spat in his face through the rails. He would be no-one’s toy. He had to escape and get back to the City that needed him. Or could he possibly do more good by staying there inside the Sultan’s grasp, the lion’s den?

  ‘If you are going to kill me, do it quickly.’

  ‘Oh, no. That would be too easy a way out for you. I have plans for you. You are destined for my harem. And you will be a fine addition.’

  ‘I will rather die than be butchered to become a eunuch.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. That would be a waste for such a fine specimen of masculinity. No, you will be kept alive for my pleasure. I see many joyful nights ahead for us.’

  ‘I will kill you.’

  ‘You are hardly in a position to threaten me. You will be kept chained. Even like that you will be more than capable of giving me great pleasure, perhaps starting from tonight, in preparation for my final assault on your city. Our first night together will be my first gift to you, a great honour. My taking of your city will be my second. The third will be your joy of living in your city as my prisoner.’

  And with those final words, the Sultan left.

  CHAPTER 12

  Edirne (Adrianoupolis), Eastern Thrace

  21st May 1453 A.D.

  The Sultan’s fascination with the last Emperor did not last long. He was bored with him now. He had served his purpose. He could not afford to take the risk of the Emperor becoming a martyr, his tomb a shrine when discovered, his worship a cult. He had to be disposed of. The Sultan called for his most trusted adviser.

  ‘Mohammed, our honoured guest has overstayed his welcome. I want him killed and dismembered into as many pieces as possible. And then I want you to send out riders to the four corners of the earth to scatter his parts. Report to me when it’s done.’