The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1

by James Heneage

  Behind the soldiers, Damian had risen from his rock.

  ‘Give yourself up, Luke,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t beat these odds. Just give me back my wife.’

  ‘Let me go to him.’ Anna was standing beside the box behind him and had the little crossbow tucked in her belt. She stepped forward.

  ‘No. Get back. We’re going to leave this place as I said we would.’

  Then, as Anna stepped away, the charge came. With a roar, the three guards ran at him, their swords thrust forward like spears, and Luke skipped backward and to the side, parrying one attack and ducking low to avoid another. As the third soldier swung towards him, Luke lifted his blade and the two swords locked for a minute until he threw his weight to one side and kicked the man’s back to send him into the sea.

  Luke knew he would have to rely on speed and agility with these odds and, above all, not lose his sword.

  A fourth guard now sprang forward, his sword raised above his head, and Luke just had time to parry the blow, inches from his head, when, from the corner of his eye, he saw his first attacker charge from his left. He thrust his sword hilt into the face of the man to his front and brought his knee up to his groin, pushing him into the path of the other as he doubled up in pain. Then he kicked out savagely so that one man crashed into the other and, arms flailing, they both toppled off the jetty.

  Three down. This was good, but the odds were still bad.

  He swung back to face the remaining soldiers. They seemed reluctant to charge and Luke welcomed the respite. He was breathing hard and needed to judge how best to resist the next attack. He rocked slowly from side to side on the balls of his feet, testing his balance against the slippery surface of the jetty and raking the line of his adversaries with the tip of his sword.

  Come on, you bastards!

  Then his heart stopped. In the second rank, one of the soldiers had sheathed his sword and was raising a crossbow to rest on the shoulder of the man in front. The man was taking aim.

  There was a roar from the portello.

  Standing there, lit by the rain-spattered flames of the torches either side of the gate, was the giant figure of Joseph. He was dressed in full Varangian armour and was holding his huge two-handed axe. A dead soldier lay at his feet.

  Luke saw his chance. He flung himself forward towards the man with the crossbow.

  But too late. The bolt slammed into him and he was lifted off his feet by the force. He felt searing pain in his shoulder as he fell on to the jetty, his sword spinning through the air to land, miraculously, by his side.

  Luke looked down at the bolt. It was buried deep but hadn’t hit any bone. He reached up and, with a grunt, wrenched it free. Blood pumped from the open wound, matting his hair and running between the wooden slats below.

  Anna tore the cloth belt from her waist, the little crossbow clattering to the jetty beside her, and crushed the cotton into a ball to hold to the wound.

  Damian was on his feet. ‘Kill him and get back to the portello!’

  In front of them, the soldier was reloading his weapon as his companions hurried past him down the jetty.

  Joseph was holding his axe in both hands and swinging it in great circles in front of him. No one could get near him and two more soldiers lay at his feet. Above him, Luke could see guards on the battlements, watching.

  Helped by Anna, he struggled to his feet, one hand holding the cloth in place, the other his sword. His head was spinning and he felt weak. He looked up to where his father had felled the last guard and was now taking great strides down the gangway to get to the jetty. The crossbowman had stopped halfway down and seemed uncertain what to do.

  I must keep Damian talking.

  ‘How did you know?’ he shouted.

  ‘How did I know? I followed you!’

  Anna now stepped in front of Luke. She was still wearing her cloak and its sodden folds were clinging to her like a second skin. Her hood was drawn back and her wet hair glistened in the light of the torches.

  ‘Damian, it’s me you want, not him,’ she said. ‘Let him get away and I promise to come quietly.’

  ‘Not entirely right, Anna,’ said Damian. ‘I want both of you.’

  Then there was another roar and, looking up through the wind and the rain, Luke saw what he’d dreaded to see.

  “NO!’

  Joseph had fallen to his knees, a crossbow bolt sunk in his back.

  He’d been shot from the city walls behind. He took off his helmet and shook his great head, his hair spraying rain across the wood beneath him. Then, with another roar, he got slowly to his feet and began staggering towards the men in front of him, dragging his axe behind him.

  ‘Kill him!’ Damian screamed. But no one moved. ‘Kill him, or I’ll kill you!’

  This time the man with the crossbow raised the weapon and took aim.

  Luke didn’t hear the bolt released but he saw his father drop the axe, his body rigid and his head thrown back. The Varangian let out a howl of pain and rage, his arms flailing as he tried to get hold of the bolt. But it was in too deep.

  Joseph pitched forward on to the jetty and lay still.

  ‘No!’ screamed Anna and ran towards him. Damian grabbed her. He wrenched the crossbow from her and aimed it at Luke.

  ‘He wasn’t meant to die!’ he shouted. ‘Why did the old fool have to interfere?’ He glanced behind him. Two guards were running towards them down the jetty.

  Luke was not listening. He was numb with shock. He stared beyond Damian and Anna to the crumpled heap of his father.

  The soldiers had reached Damian and he threw Anna at them. ‘Get her away from here!’

  They began to drag her down the jetty, one with his hand clamped to her mouth.

  Then there was someone beside Luke.

  Matthew had climbed back on to the jetty, his body dripping. ‘Take the boat!’ he shouted. ‘Take it and go. You can’t do anything for her.’

  Luke stared at his father. He couldn’t move.

  ‘Go!’ screamed Matthew.

  Still he stood there.

  Mathew pushed.

  Luke toppled back into the boat, grunting as his shoulder hit the wood. A moment later, his sword and bundle had been thrown in beside him. Then came the rope.

  ‘Go!’

  Immediately, Luke felt the powerful current lift the craft and begin to bear it away. He wrapped his good arm over the side and struggled to his knees, wiping the salt from his eyes. He could just make out a small figure being dragged up the gangway.

  ‘Anna!’ he yelled, but the wind carried off his voice. He looked around him. The heaving sea was a mountain range with snowcapped peaks, an invisible hand tearing white from their tops. A jagged bolt of lightning ignited the horizon and, seconds later, a blast of thunder shook him to his core.

  He was sailing into a gigantic storm.

  PART TWO

  CHIOS

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE MEDITERRANEAN, SUMMER 1394

  It was the squeal of pigs that eventually dragged Luke from unconsciousness.

  At first all was black around him. But then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he began to make out curves: of the hull sweeping away, of the deep shadows of bulkheads, of the enormous backside of a speckled pig.

  As the squeal came again, he turned his head painfully to the right and saw animals in pens. There seemed to be pigs, chickens and at least one pair of goats. Above him, he could see the outline of a hatch with a sliver of sunlight around it, rising and falling with the swell of the sea. Motes of dust danced in the beams like cinders, shuddering as waves hit the ship’s side.

  Any surprise that Luke felt on seeing the pigs was soon replaced by astonishment that he seemed to be alive. He had a scattered memory of towering seas silhouetted against continuous lightning and a thunder so deafening that the very planks of his little boat had seemed to come apart. He could remember cold rain driving against his back like a beating as he cowered under the rowing bench, hol
ding on to his shoulder, which pulsed with the pain of salt in an open wound. And he could remember the sudden sense of weightless dread as a huge wave lifted his flimsy craft clean into the air, turning and turning as it fell, so that Luke knew for certain that he was going to die.

  And, last of all, he remembered the fleeting sense that he didn’t much care if he did. His father was dead, Anna taken and he had no idea of the fate of his friends who’d stood with him on the jetty. What was there to live for?

  Anna.

  Anna was there to live for.

  And here he was, alive and somewhat mended. Although his shoulder still throbbed, it appeared to have a bandage around it and he was wearing fresh clothes. He’d even been washed. What he hadn’t been, though, was fed and he felt hungrier than he’d ever felt in his life. Even the stench coming from the animal pens couldn’t remove the deep, gnawing pang that he felt in his stomach. He looked around to see if any food had been left for him but couldn’t see a plate. He wondered whether hens could lay at sea.

  Luke took a deep breath and rocked his way up to lean on his good elbow. He peered into the gloom of the hold and saw, at one end, wine casks stacked on top of each other from floor to ceiling. Each barrel-end had the Mamonas castle stamped on to its wood and the word ‘Malvasia’ written beneath it.

  So at least I know whose boat I’m on.

  In front of the casks lay pile upon pile of animal hides — goatskins, sheepskins and cowhides — and Luke recognised the smell of decayed shit, lime and urine that meant they were fresh from the tanner’s yard. It looked as if something else might be stacked beneath them.

  On his other side, and much closer, were the animal pens, with wooden hurdles between and steaming straw covering their floors. Given the curve of the hull, the animals spent much of their time in collision as the boat moved with the swell. And each was followed by a shriek of fear.

  Luke shook his head slowly to try to clear the dots of light that were clouding his vision and groaned as he realised that his head throbbed every bit as much as his arm. And he had a raging thirst as well. He got to his knees and began to shuffle his way over to the animal hides. Perhaps there might be some crates of fruit underneath.

  He began to lift the hides off one by one to see if they were covering another cargo. It was slow and painful work since they were heavy and their stench almost overwhelming. At last he saw the outline of a crate. He managed to pull it free so that it clattered to the floor.

  Luke paused to see if the noise had been heard above. He looked around for something to open it with. In the gloom he made out a loose iron hoop hanging from a barrel and, ripping it free, straightened it with his knee and inserted one end into the gap between the lid and the crate. Putting all his weight on it, he heard the crack of splintering wood as the lid came free. Inside, neatly packed and with their mechanisms glistening with oil, were six crossbows.

  Luke lifted one out to examine it, turning it towards what little light there was. It was made in Venice and of the very latest design.

  He put the weapon back in the box and felt his way along the other crates, all of which appeared to be identical. Then, deep in the shadow of the bulkhead, his hands suddenly moved from wood to metal, the curved, heavy metal of a bronze barrel, rough and pitted to the touch, with thick hoops of iron surrounding it at intervals.

  Cannon.

  These must be the cannon at Geraki Alexis had told Anna of. Were they on their way to Constantinople? Presumably so.

  Luke’s mind raced. Judging by the movement of the boat, they were at anchor, which meant that they would be close to land. But with his shoulder wound he wouldn’t be able to swim far, if at all. Perhaps, if the boat was on its way to Constantinople, Luke could find a way to enter the city’s walls and get warning to the garrison. But first he needed to know where they were.

  He felt his way back up the line of crates and then moved to the stairs leading up to the hatch. By climbing two of the steps and pushing hard, he was able to extend the opening to a sliver of the world outside. And what he saw gave him a surge of hope.

  Climbing above the deck rail outside was the towering mass of the Goulas.

  They must have been driven back by the storm. Perhaps he could somehow get to the mainland and from there to Mistra. Then the Despot and Anna’s father could be told everything.

  Luke stepped back down into the hull, replaced the lid on the crate and jostled it back into place. He picked up the broken hoop and began banging it against the underside of the hatch. He heard shouts, running feet and the squeak of bolts being released. The hatch was lifted and Luke found himself blinking into the late-afternoon sun and, framed against it, the bearded faces of four seamen.

  There was a loud shout behind them and the men moved quickly away to be replaced by a man of florid complexion with costume to match. He was clearly someone of means since his doublet was slashed at the sleeves to reveal extravagant silks while the sword at his hip had a richly jewelled pommel. On his head sat a hat the size of a turkey plate, which supported a ruby the size of a vegetable. Luke guessed him to be about forty years of age.

  The man’s face creased into an enormous smile and he bowed as deep as a Florentine dancing master. Then he extended a hand through the opening to help Luke on to the deck. Once there, Luke found himself encircled by sailors, most of them bare-chested, who seemed to be staring at him with awe.

  The captain beamed at Luke as a father might to a favourite son. He took him in his arms and planted a kiss on both cheeks before turning to his men and issuing a torrent of Italian. He finished with a dramatic sweep of the arm and a cheer went up from the company.

  There was silence.

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t speak your language,’ said Luke. ‘You see, I’m from …’ He had raised his hand to gesture to the Goulas, except that he suddenly realised that it wasn’t the Goulas after all. The boat was anchored in the lee of a vast black escarpment that rose vertically from the sea and which ran into the distance as far as the eye could see. Perched at its top were a cluster of white houses interspersed with blue-domed churches, steep, stepped streets and balconies with hanging flowers. The lower houses seemed to be built partially into the rock. There was a faint smell of sulphur in the air and a gentle steam rose from the sea all around.

  Where on earth am I?

  ‘Santorini!’ came a voice from the sterncastle as if the answer had materialised on deck.

  Luke looked up towards the rear of the ship to see an extraordinary figure leaning against the upper rail staring up at the cliff face. He was a man in his middle years, of medium height and generous waist. His hair and beard were long, luxuriant and greying, obscuring much of his face, although a prominent nose could be seen pointed up at the rock and wrinkling with the smell around it.

  ‘Sulphur!’ said the man in Greek. ‘We are in what the poet Dante Alighieri might have referred to as a “circle of hell”, or a “basso loco”. We are in the middle of a volcano and what you see around you are the sides of its crater. Quite extraordinary.’

  Luke looked at the man in amazement. He was dressed from head to toe in a garment that was part tunic and part toga and had sandals on his feet. The toga was of a startling whiteness that dazzled the eye even under an afternoon sun. He looked like a veteran angel.

  Luke opened his mouth to speak but the Greek wasn’t finished.

  ‘In his Critias dialogue, Plato suggests that the civilisation of Atlantis existed here thousands of years ago and was swept under the sea by the force of the volcano’s eruption. Anyway, this is all that’s left of the island — this big caldera and a persistent smell of fart.’

  The man paused, dipped his beard to his chest and began to hum in a distracted sort of way, moving his lips in concentration. Then he stopped as if he’d suddenly remembered something important and turned to face Luke.

  ‘I’m sorry, my manners. Georgius Gemistus Plethon, citizen of Adrianopolis, at your service.’ The voice was de
ep and rich, the words almost music. This was a man who liked to be heard. ‘You may call me Plethon.’

  ‘Luke Magoris, citizen of Monemvasia, at yours,’ replied Luke with a small bow. The sailors were still staring at him openmouthed and the captain appeared anxious for him to say more.

  ‘Do you speak Italian, by any chance?’ Luke enquired.

  The older man tilted his head to one side and stroked his beard. Then he leant over the rail towards Luke and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Ah, well, that depends. To you, I may speak fluently in Greek, Latin, French, English, Arabic and Italian. To the dogs that surround you I prefer to pretend that I know only the rudiments of Italian. To do otherwise would be to invite conversation at a level I am unlikely to find congenial. For they are Venetian bandits to a man.’

  Luke looked at the man in astonishment.

  ‘However,’ he went on, ‘you will doubtless be keen to know what they are saying to you. The captain, who is a scoundrel without parallel in Christendom, says that he thanks God that he has been the instrument of your salvation from the terrible storm that blew you both all the way to Santorini. They found you adrift on some log and believe that your rescue was a manifestation of God’s infinite mercy.’

  Luke turned back to the captain. He stepped forward and put out his hand. ‘Thank you … grazie for rescuing me,’ he said, smiling into the face before him and shaking the man’s hand vigorously. Then he pointed at himself. ‘My name is Luke Magoris. Luke.’

  The captain bent into another deep bow, his hat sweeping dust from the deck. When he’d straightened and smoothed the front of his doublet and curled a moustache, he turned to his crew and dismissed them with a wave of the hand. Then he said something to Plethon and beckoned to him. The Greek sighed loudly, grumbled something in a language that Luke didn’t understand and descended the steps to join them on the deck.