So Anna had run away to the one place she knew she would not be found.
Now, eight years on, it was night again and a new fear was all around her. Anna was standing on the balcony of her house in the city of Mistra, looking out over the Vale of Sparta where the lights of countless campfires studded the darkness like fireflies and the conversation of fifty thousand Turks drifted up the hill in a single whisper.
Around her, filling the streets, squares, balconies and battlements of their small city, stood people looking on in silent vigil.
Anna felt a presence behind her.
Her brother was watching her. ‘Are you frightened?’ he asked quietly.
Anna turned to look at him. She smiled. ‘Do you remember when you found me, all those years past, wandering outside the city walls in my nightdress?’
Alexis nodded.
‘Do you remember I said then that I couldn’t remember what happened to me that night?’
Her brother nodded again.
‘Well, I’ve remembered.’
She turned back to look over the valley, and Alexis moved to stand next to her at the balustrade. Below them, far out on the plain, a deep drum had begun to beat. Then the squeak of heavy wheels could be heard between its thumps, and from among the campfires emerged horsemen holding torches aloft. Behind them rolled the engines of destruction: trebuchets, mangonels and tall, multi-tiered platforms with dripping hides hung from their sides. Anna had never seen such monsters.
‘And this is more terrifying?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You see, this I understand. The Turks want our empire because it’s the last fortress to defend Christendom. Once they have it, then they can conquer the rest of the world.’
Alexis took his sister in his arms. ‘Anna, all that is left of the Empire is Constantinople and our little despotate. That’s all there is. We just have to hold them off long enough for the armies of Christendom to gather and drive them back.’
Anna shivered. She pressed her cheek against the hard buttons that ran up the front of his tunic. ‘Will I go into the Sultan’s harem?’ she asked.
Alexis laughed. ‘No, the Turks don’t enslave the well born, and our family is the most honourable in the despotate. You’ll be safe, I promise you.’
But eight years ago Anna had made a promise to God and not kept her faith.
‘Will Emperor Manuel in Constantinople not come to our aid?’ she asked.
‘The Emperor has no money,’ Alexis replied. ‘No emperor has had any money since the Franks pillaged Constantinople two hundred years ago.’
‘But surely Mistra has money?’ asked Anna.
‘Yes,’ said Alexis, ‘we’re rich. But not rich enough.’
‘What about Monemvasia?’ pursued Anna. ‘You’re always telling me that the Mamonases are one of the richest families in the world. Surely the Archon will come to our aid?’
Alexis turned to look up the hill, to the very top where the citadel’s bulk was silhouetted by a giant beacon blazing from its tallest tower.
‘That beacon was lit a week ago,’ he said. ‘It’s fifty miles to Monemvasia and there are beacons on every hill between. They’ll have seen the signal for days now but still we’ve had no word.’
Brother and sister were silent for a long while. The siege engines had stopped in front of the campfires and, if anything, seemed more menacing in silhouette. Great boulders would be hurled from the trebuchets tomorrow, boulders that would make short work of the city’s walls.
But did the Turks have cannon? Anna’s father, Simon Laskaris, was Protostrator of Mistra, second only in rank to the Despot. He had been urging Theodore for years now to invest in these new machines that used some form of igniting powder to hurl a stone. Indeed, a Hungarian had presented himself at the court only three years past, ready to sell this new technology. But the Despot had merely laughed and waved the man away. He’d rather use the money for new churches.
Anna said, ‘So Bayezid means to conquer the world?’
Her brother nodded. ‘This Sultan is far more warlike than his father. He has boasted that he will water his horse at the altar of St Peter’s in Rome.’
Anna shuddered at the thought of such desecration. Rome might be the seat of a Catholic Pope but he was still a Christian.
Just then a light gust of wind lifted the cooking of a thousand campfires.
‘Come, Anna,’ Alexis said. ‘We’re in God’s hands now. Let’s go inside and see what our mother has for us to eat.’
Anna did sleep that night. So quiet and well disciplined was the Ottoman host that only the neighs of their horses and the sound of mallet on tent peg disturbed the rest of those citizens of Mistra that lay abed.
When dawn came, it was as if a city of tents had risen from the ground in the night. The people of Mistra, emerging sleepily from their bedrooms, wondered at the sight before them. Even the cats were silent.
This was order indeed. For as far as the eye could see there were row upon row of tents, with streets and squares laid out between them and corrals for the horses on the banks of the Evrotas River. At their centre stood a gigantic pavilion, made up of silks of every colour imaginable. It had gardens around it with rows of fruit trees in tubs and caged birds suspended from their branches and neat lawns on either side with borders of tulips gently swaying in the dawn breeze.
Ten minutes later, the Protostrator Simon Laskaris and his daughter were hurrying up the streets on their way to the citadel. The streets were full of jostling crowds anxious for news or simply there to fill amphorae with the water they’d need for the siege. Simon was pleased to see that the praetors, whom he’d ordered be armed the night before, were keeping some sort of order in the queues for the wellheads. The city’s population was already swelled to triple its normal size by the influx of refugees from the countryside.
When she’d heard that her father wanted her to accompany him to meet the Despot, Anna had guessed that he wanted her with him to amuse the Despoena while the men talked. In fact he’d been so impressed by her calm at dinner on the previous evening that he wanted her with him as an example to the city.
And it seemed to be working. People stopped to bow to the Protostrator and stare at the girl striding behind him. They were used to seeing Anna chasing her brother through the streets with a catapult. They knew her as a tomboy, with mud on her knees, the women secretly worrying for the day they knew she would be forced to make some illustrious marriage.
But here she was dressed as a woman.
Anna Laskaris had Norman blood in her veins and it showed in the cascade of hair, soft and red as fox fur, that fell to her waist and in the two malachite eyes that stared out on the world from a face traced with the lightest patina of freckles. Dressed in a chemise of the finest white lawn and with the plaits of her hair braided with flowers, she radiated calm.
They arrived at the citadel to find the Despot already dressed in armour, his breastplate burnished to a perfect sheen. With him was the Despoena Bartolomea, who hurried over to greet them. ‘Anna, you look ravishing! How many soldiers did you distract from their important work on your way up? Come, let’s go and feed my marmoset and you can tell me how things are. That man’ — she nodded in the direction of her husband — ‘tells me nothing.’
The Despot, however, was not to be cheered by the sight of Anna. When the women left, he was still arguing with a Frankish knight over a scroll that lay on the table between them. Eventually, the Despot ripped it in two, handing one half to the knight who bowed stiffly and left.
‘Normans!’ said Theodore. ‘They can’t write and they won’t do anything unless you pay them.’ He looked down. ‘Get up, Simon. I can’t talk to you down there.’
Laskaris rose from his knee.
‘It’s their way of sealing a contract,’ said the Despot, pulling a chair to the table. ‘You put your mark on the paper and then tear it in two. They claim their money when we join the two bits later. Ingenious. Wine?’
The Protostator took the goblet.
‘Sweet wine from Mount Ganos.’ The Despot raised his glass and drained it in a gulp. He wiped his beard and looked suddenly at his friend. ‘Do we still have Mount Ganos, Simon?’ he asked.
‘I fear not, Majesty. Most of Thrace belongs to Bayezid now.’
The Despot sighed. ‘Well at least we’ll still have the Malvasia, assuming those Mamonas pirates haven’t sold the last barrel to the Sultan. Did you know they sell it to the Sultan?’
‘I had heard something,’ murmured the Protostrator, sipping his wine.
‘Horses too, I gather,’ went on the Despot. ‘Since the Turk took Adrianopolis for his capital and renamed it Edirne, they’ve been doing regular business there. The Sultan wants to build up his cavalry and Mamonas has access to Outremer stock. Apparently they’re fast and fierce. Destriers that bite their way into battle.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, we can’t afford them any more than we can cannon. Let’s go outside and see what’s going on.’
The Despot took the arm of his Protostrator and led him from the chamber, up the winding steps and out on to the top of the tower.
The Vale of Sparta stretched out before them in miniature. Simon Laskaris had woken every morning of his forty-eight years to the reassuring sight of that huge plain with its farms, orchards, vineyards, olive groves and the bright ribbon of the Evrotas River winding its way through it all. It was a world of green, ordered prosperity, a world in balance, a world worth fighting for.
Now he saw smoke rising across the plain. Closer to, he saw the tanneries and storehouses alight and tiny Turkish soldiers running to set fire to houses in the Albanian and Jewish quarters.
‘St Demetrius,’ said the Despot suddenly.
‘Majesty?’
‘He’s our patron saint, isn’t he? Have we done enough praying to him, do you think, Simon? Should I organise a procession or something?’
‘Highness, he was also patron saint of Thessaloniki.’
Theodore considered this, stroking his long beard. Thessaloniki, north of the Peloponnese, had fallen five years ago. He looked down at the square in front of the palace below. It was a place he’d wanted to be the new Athens, a place where children would sit at the feet of philosophers and learn of reason. It was a place he loved.
‘The Turks are a very conservative people,’ he said. ‘Their religion leaves very little room for doubt. They won’t keep our square.’
‘No, lord,’ agreed the Protostrator. ‘And the cathedral will become a mosque.’
Both men were silent for a while, each contemplating what this future held for them.
‘Well, no time for conjecture, Simon. What do we do?’
The Protostrator turned back to the plain and pointed at the gigantic pavilion in the centre of the camp. ‘Two Horsehairs, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Which means that someone other than the Sultan is leading this army.’
In the little square of beaten earth outside the entrance to the pavilion stood a single lance driven into the ground. At its top, moving gently in the breeze, were two horse-tails.
‘The Grand Vizier, do you think?’
‘No, I hear he is in Serres with his master. I think we may have one of Bayezid’s sons before us. Perhaps the eldest, Suelyman.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
Laskaris shrugged. ‘It is the janissaries who will decide the battle,’ he said. ‘Look at them! Have you seen such a sight?’
They both looked down at the gardens before the pavilion where groups of men with tall white hats, each sprouting an extravagant plume, stood talking to each other. They seemed in no hurry to begin anything.
‘Why should we fear them?’ said the Despot. ‘They look like peacocks.’
‘Peacocks perhaps,’ said the Protostrator, ‘but also machines of war. The Sultan’s father came up with the idea and it’s ingenious. Every four years they send their men into the villages of Rumelia and take Christian boys aged between eight and fifteen from their families. They indoctrinate them in Islam and train them for war. They call it the Devshirme.’
‘But they’re slaves!’ protested the Despot.
‘Indeed, lord. But never were there prouder slaves. Look at them. They’re the best. An élite fighting force that doesn’t know fear.’
‘And what do we have? Two thousand demoralised Albanian mercenaries and a handful of greedy Norman knights.’ He glanced at the Protostrator. ‘We need Varangians. That’s what we need. And their gold which, apparently, is buried here somewhere.’ Theodore sighed. ‘But it’s no more than legend,’ he said miserably. ‘There are four Varangians in the service of Mamonas, but they won’t fight for us.’
‘It’s not they who won’t fight, but their archon,’ said Laskaris. ‘We’ll have to bind Pavlos Mamonas to our cause if we are ever to get these Turks off our plain. We need him.’
The Despot nodded gloomily. ‘As always, Simon, you’re right. My brother the Emperor sees it the same way. He’s sent gold to bribe the bastards since they won’t be shamed into helping us. But I can’t see how we can get the message to Monemvasia. We’re surrounded. If only we had cannon.’
The Protostrator was about to reply when there was a distraction from the plain below. A warehouse had exploded and tiny, burning Turks were running towards the river.
Anna was at the top of the staircase, holding her breath. Having got bored of the marmoset, she had come to find her father and had overheard most of the conversation. She coughed.
‘Anna!’ cried Theodore. ‘What a sight you are! Simon, we should put her image on every banner in the city. It will remind us what we’re fighting for.’
Anna stepped forward to be kissed. But she wasn’t really concentrating. A very daring idea was taking shape in her fifteen-year-old mind.
Five minutes later, Anna was running back to her house as fast as the crowds would allow. The Laskaris house, one of the largest in Mistra, was situated in the lower town within its own walled garden and orchard. It was about as far from the citadel as any house could be.
At last she stood, panting, in front of the tall gates with the heavy coat of arms above the archway, listening for any signs of life. There was none. It seemed that her mother had taken the servants up to the palace for safety.
She climbed the broad stone steps to the front door and pushed it open. The triclinium was empty of all furniture and tapestries and her short breaths came back to her as echoes. The vivid wall scenes from Greek mythology seemed gaudy without the divans from which her mother’s aristocratic friends would swap court gossip. And without the rich carpets, the marble floor felt cold beneath the soles of her shoes. All that remained was a solitary prie-dieu and the hollow sound of the fountain that played in an alcove at the other end of the room. Through the tall, curtainless windows she could see the houses of her beloved city climbing the hill to escape the Turk. She felt emboldened.
I can save this city.
She straightened, clenched her fists and ran up the staircase to her room, pulling off the chemise as she went. After frantic searching, she found riding breeches and some stout leather boots. She pulled them on with one hand while tearing the flowers from her hair with the other. She ran to her brother’s room and found a doublet and the riding hat he sometimes wore. Finding a mirror, she looked into it and smiled.
From girl to boy. From Mistra to Monemvasia. Now I need courage.
At the gates of the Peribleptos monastery, Anna flattened herself against the wall, nervously peering around it to see if her way was clear. A monk was hurriedly pulling plants from the little herb garden to make potions for the wounded. At the smithy beyond, two more were hammering swords into shape before plunging them into a cauldron of water while another carried blocks of ice from the underground ice house to keep it freezing. The buildings stood hard against the city walls and, looking up, Anna could see soldiers on the ramparts clearing the machicolations of weeds so that boiling water could be poured on to the heads of the attackers. From the ki
tchens behind the scriptorium came the smell of baking bread, and a cart stood at its door waiting to take it to the city’s storehouses.
Then she saw it.
The old oak tree stood in the corner made by the city wall and the refectory. This was the first time she’d seen it since that night and it sent a shock of fear coursing through her body.
I have to do this. I’m the only one who can.
She drew a deep breath and half ran, half crawled along the walls until she was lying facing the tree. Fighting down her panic, she parted its roots and slipped inside.
Immediately she felt terror. She was inside the hole and there was no turning back. All the horrors of that night came back to her. The blood was pounding in her temples and she felt faint. She was shaking uncontrollably.
Sweet Virgin Mary, help me.
But she couldn’t move; her limbs were paralysed.
It’s just a hole.
She managed to reach out an arm, feeling for the earth in front of her, praying that it was still loose.
There it was. Softer to the touch. Easily moved.
Her fingers scrabbled their way through, pulling it into the hole until she could see daylight beyond.
Freedom.
The opening grew wider and soon was big enough for her to crawl through. Stretching her body, she used all her strength to wriggle her way up and out and collapsed, exhausted, on the grass. The smell of pine and wild garlic smelt better than any meal. It was the smell of the forest, of deliverance, of a fear conquered. Gradually her senses cleared. She needed to think. She needed to be careful.
She rolled over on to her front and looked up at the ramparts. No sign of the soldiers. She looked down the hill towards the plain. No Turks as yet. They’d yet to surround the city after all.
Finally she looked into the forest that climbed the slope outside the city walls. All was quiet.
Bringing her fingers to her lips, she let out a low whistle. There was a pause and then she heard an answering neigh.
Anna allowed herself the briefest of smiles. All was going to plan. Looking once more up to the ramparts to check that she hadn’t been seen, she crawled on to the edge of the trees and then rolled forward into a ditch that would hide her from view while she collected her thoughts.
The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1 Page 3
