The boy had moved further into the tent and was still smiling.
‘My lords, I am the Prince Caspar, nephew to the Basileus in Trebizond and page to the Sultan Bayezid. My master has sent with me some hot wine to assist your discussions. He wishes these only to be held between his vassals and asks, therefore, if you, Protostrator, would wait in another tent?’
The boy looked with innocence at Simon Laskaris, who seemed uninterested in the proposal. Anna’s eyes, bright above the veil, bored into Theodore’s back.
Do not let my father leave with that boy.
But the Emperor smiled at the young prince from Trebizond.
‘I know your uncle the Emperor well, Prince Caspar,’ he said. ‘Certainly the Protostrator can retire.’
The boy bowed and turned to Anna. ‘Please serve the wine. The Emperor first.’
Anna was thinking fast. How could she prevent her father leaving? The tray she was holding was warm which meant that the wine in the goblets must be very hot.
She walked towards the Emperor but there was a dog in the way. It was circling the carpet, its long head down, looking for a place to settle.
Anna tripped.
The dog reacted as Anna had hoped. The head spun round towards her, its teeth bared. Anna let out a cry and fell against her father. The goblets fell to the floor, one releasing its contents over Simon Laskaris’s hand.
The old man grunted in pain. His hand was scalded and he held it to his chest. Then Olivera Despina was at his side examining the burn.
‘Quick,’ she said, ‘we must take it outside to the snow.’ She turned to Anna. ‘Help me.’
The women led Simon Laskaris out into the snow, Anna holding the hand as gently as she was able. Outside, she knelt next to her father and pressed snow on to it. Around them stood the six Varangians and, beyond them, the soldiers of the Sultan’s bodyguard. There was a moon.
Anna looked hard at her father. He seemed oblivious to the pain and there was still no recognition of Anna in his vacant eyes. She fought back her tears.
Olivera Despina glanced at her. She whispered. ‘We will leave him out here until I can take him away myself.’
When they re-entered the tent, the boy had changed. The gold had dulled, the halo had faded and there was no smile on the face that turned to look at them. He looked petulant and his hand was resting on the dagger at his waist. Behind him, the three princes were huddled together, talking in whispers. The dog was standing above the fallen goblets and licking the remains of the wine from the carpet.
‘Lord Laskaris’s hand needs attention,’ Olivera Despina told the boy. ‘I will take him to my tent where my women can see to him.’
The boy glanced down at the dog, which had brushed against his leg. His expression was a mix of irritation and something Anna thought might be fear.
‘The Sultan’s women will see to the wound,’ he said, looking up. ‘He must come with me.’
‘I am a woman of the Sultan,’ replied the Princess quietly. ‘Or is the pleasure you give to our lord such that he no longer knows who his wives are?’
The boy’s gold turned to crimson and he bit his lower lip. Anna wondered if he might cry. There was a long pause and the three men behind stopped their conversation to watch. The dog let out a long sigh.
Then there was a command and the sound of weapons raised in salute. A mailed arm swept open the tent flap. A cold blast of air nearly extinguished the candles and bumps arose on Anna’s bare arms. Prince Mehmed walked in, followed by his mother and the masked captain of the Sultan’s bodyguard. He was holding Simon Laskaris by the arm.
Mehmed drew the boy to one side and asked him something. Then Mehmed turned to Simon Laskaris and took his hand, inspecting the damaged flesh.
He addressed Theodore: ‘If my father’s page has orders to remove the Protostrator, then he will go with him. The burn is of no consequence.’
Anna opened her mouth to shout to the Despot that it was a trap, that her father was to be murdered.
‘Control yourself, girl,’ hissed Olivera Despina, spinning around.
By now, Simon Laskaris was being bustled out of the tent by the guard captain, Prince Mehmed and the boy following.
Anna, released from the Princess’s grip, fell to her knees. Her hands were covering her eyes and through her fingers she could see the dog on the carpet lying very still. Too still.
She looked up. Others were looking at the dog as well. The dog that had licked the wine from the carpet.
The dog that was now dead.
The Princess knelt down beside her. ‘You knew?’ she asked.
‘No!’ whispered Anna. She paused and looked across at her through a film of tears. ‘Why did you stop me from helping my father?’
‘Because you would have betrayed us,’ she replied, getting up. ‘Your father is safe.’ She looked down at the dog. ‘I didn’t think it would be poison.’
Anna unhooked her veil.
Theodore had been staring at the Serbian princess’s maid for some minutes, shaking his head slowly in amazement. Now he smiled.
‘Anna.’
Anna went over to him. ‘Majesty, I am glad to see you. But this is a place of death. You must take my father away.’
There was commotion outside. A heavy weight fell against the side of the tent.
The tent flap opened and the captain of the guard stepped in, his sword drawn. The plume on his helmet was stiff with cold and there was ice on the aventail covering his face. He looked around the room, then turned and wiped each side of his blade on the tent door before sheathing it in a single movement. Anna looked hard into his eyes. They were unblinking and fixed on her and a flash of memory came to her. Then he lifted a hand and unhooked the aventail, letting it fall to his shoulders.
Yakub.
‘Your father is safe, for now,’ he said. He turned to the Emperor Manuel. ‘Majesty, the boy is returned to his tent. The Sultan sleeps and his bodyguard is tied up and gagged. My men are outside. But we don’t have much time and you must leave now. Lord Laskaris is waiting with the horses.’
The Emperor was composed. ‘And my guard, Prince Yakub?’ he asked. ‘What of them?’
‘One of the Varangians is dead, lord. They barred our entry. It was necessary.’
Manuel frowned but then nodded. He put on his cloak and walked over to Prince Stefan. ‘I fear that next time we meet will be on the field of battle and on opposite sides. God go with you.’
The Despot had put on a cloak and pulled the hood over his head. Yakub drew him to one side and spoke to him in a whisper.
Theodore walked over to Anna and placed his hands on her arms. ‘You cannot come with us, Anna,’ he said softly. ‘Yakub has told me why you’re here. We cannot provoke Suleyman into sending another army to Mistra.’
Anna nodded dumbly, willing herself not to run from the tent into the arms of her father.
‘We owe you our lives.’ He bent down to kiss Anna on the forehead.
Anna said nothing and felt the hand of Devlet Hatun on her shoulder. Then she remembered something.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘The Turkish fleet at Constantinople. It has cannon, supplied by the Mamonas. Our fleet is sailing into a trap.’
Theodore’s face darkened. ‘You’re sure of this?’ he asked.
‘It is true,’ said Olivera Despina. ‘I heard it myself.’
The Despot nodded and then looked at Anna. ‘We shall take care of your father, I promise.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHIOS, SUMMER 1395
The consensus amongst the twelve Genoese families that ruled Chios was that the Longo estate at Sklavia was not only the finest on the island but also the closest to paradise it was possible to find on this earth.
It was further generally agreed, amongst the men in particular, that Marchese Longo was a lucky dog to have married Fiorenza Komnene, niece to the Emperor of Trebizond and certainly the most beautiful woman on Chios, if not in the world. And everyone agr
eed that it was the combination of these two felicities that rendered him a man of such amiable disposition.
When Luke had first set eyes on Fiorenza at the top of the steps to Longo’s villa, his breath had left him like a bellows. He’d stared at her in silence before remembering to bow and had been rewarded with two perfect dimples that bracketed a smile of pure warmth.
‘May I introduce my wife, Fiorenza?’ had come a voice from behind him.
Fiorenza descended the stone steps like a zephyr, placing each slippered toe in front of the other with grace, to stop two above Luke where she had the advantage of equal height. She looked him straight in the eye, her head slightly tilted, and lifted her hand to be kissed, dimpled smile intact.
Fiorenza was thirty years of age and, like the day around her, at the late pinnacle of her loveliness. Her hair, yellow as buttercups, fell in tendrils over her cheeks and, rippling back from her forehead, was caught in a fall of intricate and tight-plaited loops, all threaded with ribbons. Her eyes were a pellucid blue beneath arched brows and her skin was fair and untouched by the sun.
Luke’s tongue had become lead.
‘Luke Magoris,’ he said in a whisper and straightened to see kind amusement in her face. Her hands dropped to the side of a simple dress of cream silk, its bodice lightly embroidered, from which her bosom rose and fell without hurry. She was studying him with some interest.
‘Luke is from Monemvasia,’ continued Longo, joining Luke on his step and kissing his wife’s hand. ‘He has made a fortunate escape from Venetian slave traders and will be our guest.’
‘Then you must be tired and in need of something cool to drink,’ she said, turning to Luke and taking his hand. She led him to the top of the steps and on to a broad veranda where two servants waited with trays.
That had been six months ago when Luke was still raw with grief and a blank tapestry on which Fiorenza might weave. Her interest at that first meeting on the steps had been that of a keen intellect confronted by something different. Fiorenza was clever, adored by her husband and bored to distraction by island gossip. And since God had yet to bless their marriage of ten years with children, she was in need of a hobby.
And here was a young man of eighteen in need of rest, friendship and, above all, education. From the first day of their aquaintance, Luke showered her with questions; about the island, about its people, its trade, about her. And through it all, she discerned an unspoken sadness, a sadness that sought some diversion in learning.
Fiorenza quickly saw that there was something about their guest that was beyond the ordinary. He was certainly imbued with physical advantage, as evidenced by the giggling servant girls. But he also seemed to have a capacity to absorb and retain information that was truly remarkable.
Then there were the horses.
From the start, Luke had displayed his skill with horses. There was a stud at Sklavia where a Berber stallion from the Maghreb had recently been put to Persian mares, the experiment so far showing disappointing results. The blood-mix had proved volatile and the offspring was unworkable.
But Luke had stepped calmly into its paddock, Marchese and Fiorenza holding their breathe from the fence where they watched, and begun to talk to the animal. And little by little, day by day, they’d seen the horse change so that, within a week, Luke had a saddle on its back and, within two, was riding it across the fields of the estate.
A week after this, Luke had made a request.
‘I want to learn. Will you teach me, Fiorenza?’
She had been in the garden, picking flowers.
‘What do you want to learn, Luke?’ she’d asked.
‘Everything you know.’
So Fiorenza had begun the task of giving Luke the education of a Princess of Trebizond. She had concentrated on those bits of learning most expected in a cultured man: languages, mathematics, history, astronomy and literature, with some Latin to provide mortar between the bricks. Led by Fiorenza, Luke’s mind had roamed across continents, lingering with the Venetian Marco Polo in the palaces of Kublai Khan before riding on the backs of Greek Gods through Ptolemy’s heavens to sit among the seven hills of Rome listening to the love calls of Catullus.
Fiorenza used the whole island as her laboratory — its landscapes and skies, its legends and memories — to bind the strands of human knowledge to her purpose. She told Luke the story of the birth of the island, of how the God Dionysus had first taught the islanders to cultivate wine, having rescued his wife Ariadne from the clutches of Theseus and the trauma of the Minotaur; of how her wedding diadem had been set in the heavens as the constellation of Corona; of how their son Oenipion had been its first king and his daughter Chiona had given the island its name.
They would ride to the village of Vrontados to sit on the rock where Homer read his Iliad and visit the forests of the Voreiochora to rest in pine groves on the slopes of Mount Pelinaios, needles deep as fleece beneath their feet. They would shiver beneath stalactites in the caves of Ayios Galas and welcome the warm bounty of spring as they galloped through clouds of lavender and meadows of poppies.
Book upon book was laid as a tantalising feast before Luke and he gorged himself, falling asleep to dreams of shapes and numbers and words and music. At night, he sometimes thought of Plethon and of his yearning for fusion between the cultures of East and West, a fusion that would bring reason and logic and peace. He thought that Fiorenza might be the perfect symbol of that fusion, being all that was most elegant and mystical about the East yet having transplanted so well into the rich, commercial soil of Genoese Chios.
He also thought about Mistra. Somewhere in that city might lie the clue that would connect his dragon sword to the Varangian treasure. But Mistra was hundreds of miles away and he had no means of getting there.
But most of all he thought about Anna and the gulf between them. The more Luke learned of the world, of its grim logic, the greater the chasm yawned. He was the son of a soldier. She was the daughter of the second man in the despotate. It had all been an impossible dream.
Part of his learning would be to forget Anna.
And now, on a still summer evening, Fiorenza sat at one end of a table set out under a vine-woven trellis in the gardens of Sklavia. The lamplight shone on the latticework of her sleeves and the exact and regular folds that defined the bones of her body. A woman fingered a lute somewhere in the shadows and frogs pulsed in the trees and scented undergrowth of the borders. And far above them the arc of Corona was clear and curved and bright in the heavens and Luke looked at it and felt the ancient voice of the island breathing all around him.
Around the table sat the twelve families of Chios, or at least their signori, and their wives. Here were the Campi, the Arangio, the Adorno, the Banca and the other families which, fifty years ago, had formed this remarkable experiment in collective, joint-stock money making on an island they called Scio and for which they paid the nugatory annual rent of five hundred hyperpera to the Emperor in Constantinople. At their head sat the remarkable Marchese Longo, handsome, astute, good and married to the miracle of Fiorenza, Princess of Trebizond, and together they ruled, first among equals, in justice, wealth and splendour.
Apart from Luke, there were two others present not of the twelve families. One was Benedo Barbi, engineer to kings, emirs and two popes. He had been born in Genoa but had come to the island from Alexandria. He had been here for over a year now to build new defences for the port of Foca and the castle at Chora, and advise on irrigation systems for the vineyards of the Kambos.
The other was a man from Cyprus who was telling them about sugar. ‘It is the best thing the Arabs have given us,’ he was saying. ‘The very best. The West has a sweet tooth that cannot be fed by us in Cyprus alone. Even the Sultan eats a bowl of sugar every day. You came here to Chios fifty years past and we took Famagusta twenty years ago. Your wine,’ and here he raised his cup in salute, ‘has prospered but our sugar has prospered more. You have room to grow sugar cane here, especially in the so
uth, and we think you should try it.’
‘But we’re building up our mastic business there,’ said the elderly Gabriele Adorno, shaking his head, ‘and we believe that the Turk will take more and more of it as the taste for it spreads beyond the harem. Besides, it’s what we know how to do.’
‘Indeed,’ joined in Giovanni Campi, ‘and as for wine, we are experimenting with a Grechetto grape which we believe will blend well with the Malvasia variety. We’ll need more room for that.’
Luke watched a lizard hang from the fluted sides of a pillar and thought about sugar cane and the mills and refineries and factories that would be required. Benedo Barbi had provided a practical and commercial edge to Fiorenza’s teaching and with it had come the confidence to offer his opinion.
‘Would the money not be better deployed building up the defences of the island?’ he said. ‘The Turkish pirates are growing more daring in their raids on the south and you will lose your workforce down there if you don’t do something to protect them.’
Heads greyer than his nodded around the table and a moth the size of a small bird landed in front of Luke, spreading its wings as if delivering something.
Benedo Barbi spoke. ‘Luke is right. The system of small forts we are planning in the south will eat up a lot of capital. Sugar is an expensive business; I have seen the factories in Syria and they are sophisticated.’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied the man from Cyprus, ‘but growing sugar can be its own defence. The Turk will not take an island if the tribute he gets from sugar grown with our efficiency is more than he would get doing it badly himself. But wine? Apart from the Sultan, none of them drink it.’
‘But what of our mastic, which they so crave?’ asked Zacco Banca. ‘We give them tribute from that. The Turk knows nothing of growing mastic.’
‘They could learn,’ said the man. ‘And from what I’ve heard, your Greeks down there might feel safer under Turkish protection. How close are they to rebellion, do you think?’
There was silence around the table and Luke looked at Fiorenza, who’d said nothing but had watched the conversation closely through her bright, intelligent eyes. The moon had risen behind her like a halo and a bat or skittish bird had fluttered across it. Pastilles had been lit to ward off the mosquitoes and their scent lingered the length of the table. The sound of the cicadas was unbroken and comforting in its uproar. She smiled.
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