The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1

by James Heneage

  Now he tried to focus on the beam above his cot, lit by the full moon outside. It seemed to have a name scratched into it that he couldn’t read. The ship rose and fell with the gentle swell and the moon appeared and disappeared from the porthole like a mime show. All was quiet outside his cabin but there was a new, putrid smell in the air and Luke thought of what Plethon had told him of Turkish galleys.

  He knew that they were at anchor in a tiny lagoon whose shores were no more than a hundred paces from the ship’s sides. He could swim that distance. There were whispers outside and the squeal of bolts pulled back from the hatch over the hold. A cargo was being brought up to the deck. He heard the splash of oars and felt the bump of a smaller craft come alongside. There were grunts and low curses as heavy objects were lowered over the sides and the occasional thump as something metal hit wood.

  There were more whispers and Luke guessed that if he was to be taken, it would be now. The door would open and he’d be rushed, tied up and thrown into the boat alongside the cannon. On the other side of his door he could hear the heavy breathing of men who’d recently exerted themselves. Luke tensed his body and gripped the hilt of his sword, moving his other hand to hold the edge of his bedclothes, ready to tear them off when the time came. He shook his head to try to clear it of the fog of wine, sucking deep breaths of air through his teeth.

  Then it happened, but not as he’d expected.

  He heard the handle turn slowly and the creak of the door as it inched open. Through half-open eyelids he saw a man silhouetted and two more behind, one of whom seemed to be carrying a coiled rope. The man sniffed; the smell of the Turkish galley was stronger now. It must be close.

  Luke let out a drunken snore and heard a stifled laugh from one of the men. He turned on to his side, grunting and smacking his lips, offering his back to them. He heard the men move forward with greater confidence, greater carelessness.

  Now!

  Luke leapt from the cot, sword in hand, and lunged. The man in front let out a screech of pain as the sword tip ripped open the skin of his upper arm, blood quickly spreading across his shirt like a tide. He pitched backwards on to his companions, who fell out on to the deck, dropping the rope and clubs they were holding. Luke leapt through the door and slammed his sword hilt into the face of a man who doubled up in agony; Luke brought his pommel down on the back of his head, sending him crashing to the deck. He looked up to see the third man rush at him from the side, a spar in his hand, and Luke lifted his sword to parry the blow while rocking back on his heels to let his attacker overreach himself. Then he spun around as the man passed, kicking the back of his legs and sending him sprawling against the rail. He leapt forward and brought the side of his sword down sharply on his back. The man fell heavily to the deck.

  There was a shout to Luke’s left and he spun round to see Rufio advancing on him, sword in one hand, dagger in the other and no hint of a smile on his lips. Behind him were two other sailors with swords, one also carrying a net. Luke glanced quickly at the rail and wondered if he had time to get to it. He looked back at Rufio, who was only feet away and shaking his head. With a roar, the Italian raised his broadsword and charged.

  Luke was surprised at how fast the man could move and only just had time to duck Rufio’s swing, feeling the rush of wind on his hair as the blade passed an inch above his head. He stepped back and parried as the next stroke came with terrifying speed. This man was an expert swordsman.

  Luckily, Rufio’s two companions seemed happy to let him fight alone and Luke could turn his full attention to how to use his youth and extra height to gain some advantage. One thing he had on his side, he realised, was the likelihood that Rufio did not want to kill him, for a dead slave wouldn’t command any price at all. He could afford to take chances.

  With this in mind, Luke went on to the attack, bounding forward and using his sword as a spear, jabbing it at the Italian’s face and neck with short stabbing thrusts. The captain parried them with his broadsword but the weapon was heavy and his arm slowed with the effort. He fell back towards the mast and then, with his back against it and his sword locked at the hilt with Luke’s, he let fly a vicious kick which caught Luke in the stomach, winding him and sending him flying back towards the rail. In an instant, the Italian had sprung forward with a cry of triumph, gesturing to the man with the net to follow him.

  Luke felt weak and dizzy and knew he was unlikely to be able to resist them both. He gripped his sword and prepared to do his best.

  Then something unexpected happened.

  ‘Basta!’

  From the deck behind him came a shout followed by a torrent of perfect Italian. Plethon was standing there, dressed only in the white toga, with his arm raised as if he were addressing the Senate. Rufio was so astonished that for an instant he forgot his adversary, and that instant was enough for Luke to climb on to the ship rail and dive into the sea, sword still in hand.

  It was a twenty-foot drop and Luke landed badly, his wounded shoulder taking much of the impact. Nevertheless, he turned on to his front and kicked for the shore, paddling with his strong arm. He could see commotion on the ship’s deck and Rufio leaning over the side jabbing his finger in his direction. Then a crossbow bolt plunged into the sea beside him and Luke ducked underwater. Further bolts hit the sea and dived deeper, his shoulder protesting all the way.

  Holding his breath, Luke swam as fast as he could towards what he thought was the shore, clutching his sword to his front. At last, with his lungs bursting and spots of light exploding before his eyes, he broke the surface and was relieved to see that he was almost at the rocks. No more bolts were being fired at him and he guessed that he was far enough away from the ship to be nearly invisible.

  He pulled himself up to his knees and looked around him. At the end of the bay there seemed to be a deep beach of sand leading on to grass that climbed inland in a series of overlapping hills. He could see some dim figures grouped together on the sand with a boat beached in front of them. Were these the Turks? Above him was scrub, knee-high and interspersed with jagged rock that would make running difficult. While he remained low, he would be shadowed against the hill so he decided to keep to the shallows and try to make his way along the edge of the lagoon via the shoreline. He could see the ship’s boat silently gliding towards the shore, its oars muffled with hessian. On it would be the cargo of crossbows and cannon. He saw the outline of a cloaked figure standing in the bow and guessed that this was Rufio. Could he have given up?

  Luke considered this as he stumbled through the shallows. Rufio might worry that he’d tell the Genoans what he’d seen and from them it would reach the Emperor Manuel. But then again, what had he actually seen? As far as Rufio knew, Luke had no idea of the cargo in the hold.

  Luke decided to strike inland. Crawling up the hill, he found what looked like a sheep-path in the moonlight and set off in the direction of the hills. Every now and then he stopped and stood in silence to listen for any sound of pursuit. Nothing. The Venetians had either given up or were quieter than ghosts.

  The path was gentle to begin with and then began to climb steeply, the stream beside it losing itself in a gully that turned into a ravine. There were stepped terraces either side in which stood strange, twisted trees, planted in rows, that Luke had never seen before. They were smaller than olive trees and their smooth trunks shone dimly in the light of the moon. Whatever they were, they were giving off a scent very different from the Turkish galley. It was sweet and aromatic and Luke wondered if the trees had some medicinal use.

  The going now was easy and Luke hurried on, determined to put as much distance as possible between him and the Venetians and hoping to come across some village where he could persuade the Greek inhabitants to take him to their Genoese masters. But the landscape was deserted except for row upon row of these strange trees.

  At last, towards dawn, he crested the hill and looked out over a broad valley of groves and orchards to what looked like a cluster of houses at its
end. There were no lights to be seen amongst the buildings, which Luke thought strange. It was nearly daybreak and most farmworkers would be preparing to leave for the fields by now. He wiped his brow on his sleeve and strained to hear any sounds of animals.

  Luke broke into a slow run, breathing evenly against the pain of the wound rubbing against the rough fabric of his tunic. As he reached the plain, he lengthened his stride and saw that he’d misjudged the distance to the village and that the first houses were already taking shape. He heard a dog bark and then another. Dogs usually meant people.

  The village was indeed inhabited but not by anyone who wanted to meet him. As he walked up the dirt track between the houses, the low moon casting his shadow long across the ground, he heard the sound of a slammed shutter and the growl of a dog behind a door. He held his sword in one hand and his eyes raked every shadow for movement, his senses alert and his body tensed.

  He stopped and cleared his throat.

  ‘I am a friend,’ he shouted. ‘I’m a Greek, like you, and I flee the Turks. You have no need for fear.’

  Silence. Another dog growled.

  ‘I need to speak to someone.’

  More silence, and then the sound of a bolt released from its lock and the squeak of protesting hinges as a door was inched open. ‘Here!’ hissed a man’s voice to his left. ‘Here, where I can see you!’

  Luke lowered his sword and walked slowly towards the voice, keeping his head turned in the direction of the moon and hoping that his fair hair was clearly visible in its light. He stopped in front of the door and waited.

  ‘Where are the Turks?’ whispered the man. He was old and bent and the moon made the thin strands of white hair on his wrinkled head shine like gossamer. Luke heard a low growl beside him and glanced down to see a large dog leashed by his side, its teeth locked in a snarl.

  ‘They’ll be at sea by now,’ answered Luke. ‘I left them some hours ago in a small bay beyond those hills.’ He turned and pointed in the direction he’d come. ‘They were collecting some cargo from a Venetian round ship.’

  ‘They were at Fana Bay,’ said the man. ‘What was the cargo?’

  ‘Cannon,’ said Luke. ‘For the Turks.’

  The man spat into the earth at Luke’s feet. ‘Venetian pigs,’ he mumbled. ‘They’d sell their own mothers.’

  Luke very slowly laid his sword on the ground in front of him. Both man and dog watched his every move. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, his heart racing. Backing away from him was a younger man, with a single, dented cuirass strapped to his chest. A sword was slung at his side and he was holding his hands in the air. He bent down to pick up Luke’s sword and offered it to him, nodding slowly as he did so.

  ‘The Turkish galleys are too fast for the Genoans to catch them,’ said the man. ‘But I can give you my horse and you can go and tell them what you’ve seen. You should go to the big castle at Chora and ask for Marchese Longo. He is the leader of the Genoese.’ The man paused and looked up and down the little street. ‘I am Dimitri. We’ve been raided many times by Turkish pirates, and children have been taken into slavery.’

  ‘Give me your horse, Dimitri,’ Luke said.

  By midday, Luke was standing in the entrance hall of the Giustiniani Palace inside the great castle of Chora.

  Chora was more a fortified town than a castle since there were as many houses and churches inside the walls as out. Most of the island’s Greek nobles lived there while their Genoan overlords lived on their estates outside the city in the rich plain of the Kambos to the south. The castle had been built by the Byzantines two hundred years before and was enormous. It had strong walls, one overlooking the sea and three land walls surrounded by a wide moat.

  It had taken Luke three hours to ride there from the village on a thin, asthmatic horse that preferred the grass of the verge to the thrill of the open road. He’d passed through a rich, hilly country in the south with steep valleys latticed by terraces of olive groves and row upon row of the strange shrunken trees. He had ridden through villages with fields of cattle and pigs at their edges and vegetable plots beyond. This was a prosperous land that seemed blessed with good soil and plentiful water and yet the people were reserved and fearful, watching him with suspicion as he urged his wretched horse towards their capital.

  Coming out of the hills, he had ridden on to the plain of the Kambos, which was a place of even greater bounty, with orchards of orange, lime and tangerine next to fields of wheat and vineyards heavy with purple grapes. Here there was an earth so rich that its dark ochre colour seemed to overwhelm its produce. The land was crisscrossed with canals and narrow, high-walled lanes whose verges rippled with wild tulips. Every now and again a gated arch would announce another estate and he’d see the tops of mansions and tall cypress trees to shield them from the fierce meltemi winds of summer.

  Luke was overwhelmed by the prosperity of the place, a prosperity even greater than that he’d seen on the Goulas of Monemvasia. He was fascinated by the churches with their square, pillared bell towers; by the gaudy, puffed doublets and feathered hats of the men he passed on horseback. This was indeed a place to prosper in.

  But the wheezing of his horse soon jolted him back to reality and before long he was riding under the emblazoned arch of the Porta Maggiore and handing his reins to a servant at the base of a steep flight of steps that led up to the entrance to the Giustiniani Palace.

  If Marchese Longo was surprised at the tall, fair figure in filthy rags and bandages that required his extraction from his meeting, he was far too well bred to show it. Dressed in a black doublet of marbled silk and a shouldered cloak cut in the French style, he strode into the entrance hall with two black hunting hounds in tow. His clothes and hounds seemed designed to complement the white squares of the floor so that the three of them might have been part of a game of chess.

  ‘Signor Magoris, I am so sorry for keeping you waiting,’ said Longo in almost accentless Greek, his hand stretched out in greeting. ‘The twelve of us in the Mahona meet only once a month and, as you will imagine, there is much to discuss.’

  Luke had no idea who the twelve might be or what the Mahona was. He held out his hand and felt this dark man’s gaze settle upon him as his many-ringed hand made contact with his own. Longo was of middle years and middle height, with streaks of grey in his beard, but there was a tautness in his bearing that suggested energy.

  Longo turned from Luke and issued a low whistle and the two dogs came instantly to his side and sat each on a white square, looking up at him with tongues adrift and true love in their eyes.

  ‘I am told that you have news of importance,’ said Longo, smiling and feeling the velvet of an ear between thumb and forefinger. ‘You have seen Turks in the south of our island? Would it be convenient for you to take wine in my office and tell me about it?’

  Luke was about to answer when a rumble came from beneath his shirt.

  ‘And food!’ said Longo. ‘Of course. You cannot have eaten for hours. May I ask my cook to prepare something for you? Some cold chicken?’

  Luke felt faint with hunger and gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

  Longo and his dogs led him through into a sumptuous dining room of rosewood-panelled walls hung with Flemish tapestries and a long oak table stretching the length of the room. He clapped his hands and issued instructions. He held a chair back for Luke to sit on and went to a side table where a pitcher of wine and goblets stood.

  ‘I should add some water to it,’ said Longo, handing him the cup. ‘Chian wine is strong and yours is an empty stomach. Not a good combination for the telling of a tale.’

  Luke was adding water to his wine when the food arrived. There was cold chicken and quail, bread, cheese, figs and olive paste and Luke ate as slowly as his hunger allowed. Longo watched him, making no attempt to hurry him into his story. At last, as Luke was washing the grease from his fingers, he spoke.

  ‘How have you found yourself in Chios, Signor Magoris?’ he aske
d. ‘I would say from your clothes that you did not expect to come here; indeed I would say that you’ve been recently engaged in some fighting, probably on board a ship, and escaped by swimming to the shore. What I’d like to know, though, is what this has to do with the Turkish galley that has been seen in our waters these past few days?’

  Luke gathered his thoughts. He had rehearsed a version of events but now found himself telling this man much, much more.

  Longo only interrupted twice; once to scowl and mutter something when told of the cannon at Geraki, and once when Luke described his encounter with Plethon. Then Longo smiled, his eyes filling with delight.

  ‘Plethon!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have not seen him in years. Now that had been a rare treat if he’d come with you to our island!’

  Luke said, ‘I believe he saved my life. If he hadn’t appeared when he did, I’m sure the captain would have killed me.’

  ‘Signore,’ laughed Longo, ‘talking and dressing up have never been hardships to Plethon. And however lunatic his pronouncements, each one is a gem. He rarely comes to Chios, but when he does, I will follow him as my dogs do me, not wasting a moment of that mind!’

  Longo became serious again. ‘But you’ll want to know how we can stop the Turks. Sadly, we could not possibly intercept the galley even if we wanted to. It is a fast ship and we in Chios are not minded to declare war on the Sultan just yet.’

  Luke listened to this, knowing that he’d discharged his duty in reporting the cannon and that events were now beyond his control. Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion broke over his body so that he nearly swooned under its weight. He stifled a yawn.

  ‘You must be very tired,’ said Longo. ‘We can talk more about this tomorrow.’

  Luke awoke the next morning to a choir. Every bird in Chios seemed to have gathered at his window, determined to display its individual repertoire. He’d slept deeper than he thought possible and had been untroubled by any wound of shoulder or memory. For a long while, he lay looking straight up at the white ceiling above his bed, its colour mirroring the emptiness of his mind. He wondered idly what time of the day it was and, were he to rise, what clothes he should put on.