The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1

by James Heneage

  ‘Well,’ she said, glancing at her husband, ‘we have a plan for that.’ She looked around the table and settled her gaze on Benedo Barbi. ‘Signor Barbi and Luke will travel tomorrow to the south and agree the location of the forts. Luke is Greek and well placed to reassure the villagers of our intent to protect them.’

  Later on, when the pastilles had burnt out and the wine run low and the smells of this perfumed isle had drifted in with the night, Luke listened half-heartedly to the subject that any gathering of Genoese with time on their hands would revert to: the Venetians.

  It was more than twenty years since Genoese and Venetian guests had lit the fuse of war by brawling at the coronation of young Peter de Lusignan of Cyprus, and fifteen years since the Genoese had taken, then lost, the island of Choggia on the edge of the Venetian lagoon. The hatred felt by the rival cities was now firmly centred in the eastern Mediterranean and in particular on the islands of Cyprus and Chios, where fortunes were to be made and exchanged in the businesses of alum, wine and sugar.

  By this time, Fiorenza and the other women had retired to their beds inside the house, along with some of the older gentlemen.

  The man from Cyprus refilled his glass and said, ‘The Venetians want your alum and your wine and they want your island. What if they find common purpose with the Turk? I hear rumours that the Serenissima’s envoy is well received at Edirne. Not by the Sultan, but by his son Prince Suleyman.’

  Luke felt drowsy and a little befuddled but he knew the answer to this. ‘If you can get the people of Chios on your side then this island can be defended against anyone,’ he said. ‘Currently, the Venetians can exploit the divisions between Greek and Italian. Who’s to say they’re not behind these pirate attacks?’

  Marchese Longo nodded in agreement. He turned to the engineer. ‘Benedo, how quickly can we get forts built in the south?’

  ‘Quickly enough. Perhaps a year, lord,’ replied the engineer. ‘But I am working on something else as well. Luke knows about it.’

  ‘Something else?’ asked Longo.

  ‘Greek fire, lord.’

  ‘Greek fire? But, Benedo, the secret’s been lost!’

  ‘To the Greeks, perhaps. But its ingredients are known to chemists in Alexandria: naphtha, quicklime, sulphur and nitre. It’s just a question of getting the mixture right. I am experimenting.’

  ‘I heard it was a state secret,’ said Zacco Banca. ‘They say that its operators only knew of one component each, that only a handful understood how to put it all together. What does it do?’

  ‘It burns on water,’ said Barbi. ‘Perhaps it is even ignited by water. Certainly the reaction between quicklime and water is explosive. It can sink a pirate fleet.’

  ‘Well,’ Longo said, ‘you must continue to experiment, Barbi, and whatever you need will be given to you. But for now, we must think of these forts. How will we find the garrisons to man them?’

  Luke said, ‘Why not simply make each village into a fort? It would be a lot cheaper.’

  ‘But what if they rebel?’ asked Banca. ‘Won’t that just encourage them to rebel?’

  ‘Not if you do something else as well,’ replied Luke. ‘I think, signori, you might consider allowing the villagers some share in the profit from the mastic. Why not make their interests align with yours? It would be cheaper in the long run.’

  At this, there was an uncomfortable silence and glances were exchanged around the table. The Genoese were not famous for sharing profits. Wine washed into glasses and the cicadas argued more loudly.

  ‘Luke is right. And my wife agrees with him,’ said Longo carefully. ‘The Greeks will fight to defend a just government.’

  As he spoke Luke smelt something unexpected. There was sulphur in the air and the sweet, acrid smell of burning citrus. The others had smelt it too and Longo lifted his head and pointed his nose to left and right.

  ‘Is that burning I smell?’ he asked. ‘Can anyone else smell burning?’

  There was a shout in the distance and the sound of feet running fast across grass. Luke could see a glow in the sky behind the garden beyond.

  In the direction of the house.

  ‘Lord!’ came a voice from the darkness. A body emerged from the shadows, dishevelled and flushed from running. ‘The orchards around the house are ablaze! The fire is spreading towards the house!’

  Longo came to his feet. ‘Are the women within?’

  ‘I don’t know, lord,’ panted the man. ‘The servants …’

  Before the sentence was out, Longo was running fast across the lawn and the other men were following, their doublets left on the backs of their chairs.

  As they jumped the borders and ripped their hose on thorned roses, the smell grew stronger and the glow brighter. This was no small fire, but one that spread across a wide field of lemon trees and its flames could now be seen dancing in jagged abandon against the night sky. The house, when it came into view, was wreathed in swirls of smoke but didn’t seem to be alight. Its towers and castellations were black and vivid in silhouette and the Giustiniani flag stood stark and unmoving on its pole. Luke whistled softly.

  At least there’s no wind.

  A mass of people surrounded the house, some with buckets, some with rakes. They had cowls lifted to protect their noses and mouths. Nearly everyone was shouting.

  Luke looked around, searching every face. None was Fiorenza. He saw Longo look at him quickly, alarm etched into every feature. They ran towards the arch leading into the front courtyard, nearly colliding with their guests, all in their nightgowns and holding garments to their faces. Fiorenza was not among them. Luke stepped aside to let them pass and then ran into the house, Longo beside him.

  Longo stopped. ‘I can see to my wife. This fire didn’t start by itself. Take some men and see if you can find the people who did this.’

  Luke nearly said something, but then he turned and ran back across the courtyard to where the Genoese were standing in a huddle, husbands comforting wives.

  ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘this fire was lit by men who may still be here. We must find them. Will you help me?’

  Swords were drawn to solid nods and the toss of heads casting off the effects of the wine. There were now lines of men feeding water to the fire and its spread to the buildings seemed checked. The trees in the orchard were throwing off sparks of exhausted flames and the grass beneath was black and smoking. Luke led the party into the field, signalling for the men to spread out, and each ran with his blade ahead of him, ready for the rush from the shadows.

  Deep into the orchard, Luke saw something. A shadow amongst shadows. A running figure, hunched, darting between the ruin of the trees. Luke launched himself into a sprint, his boots smoking, his shirt wet with sweat and smudged with falling cinders. He could see little in front of him but heard the break of wood and the rasp of desperate breath. Then the figure was ahead of him and moving fast and a spent torch was in his hand until he flung it away. He was weaving between the skeletons of trees and Luke could see the rough smock and breeches of a Greek peasant.

  Luke was gaining on him and the man knew it. He looked over his shoulder. Luke recognised him. He was the man from the village, the man who’d given him his horse. Luke threw himself forward and brought him to the ground. He rolled him over, his sword at his throat.

  ‘Say nothing!’ hissed Luke. ‘There are men here who would kill you for the sport. Say nothing and lie still. We need to talk.’

  The man lay rigid; he didn’t struggle and didn’t open his mouth. Around them were the sounds of search and the crackle of fading flame. Luke lowered his sword slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the man.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, and got to his feet, holding the man by the scruff of his neck. He crouched into a run, pushing him ahead, keeping a hand on his head to keep him low. He looked behind and was relieved to see no one. The two of them stumbled forward, knees hitting their chests, until they reached a narrow hut with wooden slats that were warm and fl
aked by the fire. They stopped, put their backs to its wall and looked at each other with suspicion.

  ‘Why?’ asked Luke. His sword was still in his hand but slack by his side. He rubbed soot from his cheek and swept his hair back from his eyes.

  The man didn’t answer.

  Luke laid his sword on the ground. ‘Why?’ he asked again.

  The man looked around, back at Luke and then beyond him, out into the night. His shoulders slumped and he slid his back down the wall, the slats rucking his shirt up and his arms coming to rest in his lap. He put a hand to his temples and closed his eyes. He rubbed his eyelids and shook his head slowly from side to side.

  Luke brought himself down to the man’s level and Dimitri turned his head.

  ‘And why you?’ he asked quietly. ‘You are Greek yet you dine with the Genoese. We have seen you riding with the Byzantine princess, dressed as they are and planning your enrichment at our expense. Have you no pride?’

  Pride. Did he have pride? Luke had thought of everything in these past months except perhaps that.

  He said, ‘You could have killed people.’

  Dimitri shook his head. ‘No wind. It was intended to frighten, not kill.’

  ‘So why?’

  Dimitri let his head fall back against the wood. ‘We want protection. Protection from the pirates and, if we can’t get that, then the means to defend ourselves.’

  At that moment, there was movement in some bushes to their left and they both looked towards it. There was a glint of metal. Luke picked up his sword and thought about using Dimitri as a shield, then discarded the idea. Instead the man beside him spoke.

  ‘Don’t shoot, Marko,’ he said tiredly, his hand stretching to lower Luke’s sword. ‘We won’t win by killing Greeks. Come out here. He wants to talk.’

  A man rose slowly from the bushes. He was wearing a loose leather jerkin with a belt at its waist and a knife in the belt. He was holding a crossbow. He walked over to them, checking to left and right.

  Luke was staring at the crossbow. He got to his feet. ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked.

  Marko didn’t reply. He was holding the weapon in a way that suggested he was unpractised in its use.

  ‘I want to help you,’ said Luke, turning to Dimitri. ‘But I need to know how you got that weapon. I’ve seen it before.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘We found it on the beach,’ said Dimitri at last. ‘Five cases of them, all brand new. We assumed they were intended for the garrison.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps they were shipwrecked.’

  ‘Was it the beach at Fani?’ asked Luke. He stretched out his hand to take the weapon and Marko glanced at Dimitri, who nodded. The bolt was removed and Luke took the weapon. He studied it carefully: it was identical to those he’d seen on the ship.

  ‘This weapon was left for you to find,’ said Luke quietly. ‘By the Venetians. They want you to rebel against the Genoese so that they can take over the island.’ Luke looked from one man to the other. ‘They’ll be worse masters than the Genoese, I promise you.’

  The men exchanged glances. Luke returned the weapon to Marko. There was a dog’s bark in the distance, then another.

  ‘Look,’ he said to Dimitri, ‘you shouldn’t stay here. Get back to your village and take the rest of your men with you. I’ll ride out to you tomorrow and we can talk then.’

  Dimitri nodded once and turned away. ‘Until tomorrow, then,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHIOS, SUMMER 1395

  The next morning broke fair but smudged with the residue of burning. The west walls of the villa were black with soot but otherwise untouched. The orchard was a charnel house of sodden, still-smoking branches in various contortions. It looked like a battlefield.

  Luke rose early and found Longo kneeling amidst the carnage. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and leather breeches with no hose. He looked tired and his hair clung to his head like seaweed. He looked up when he heard Luke approach.

  ‘They could have done much worse,’ he said, looking around him. ‘I wonder what held them back.’

  Luke knelt beside the older man. He scraped away the ash on the ground with his fingers. ‘Isn’t it good for the soil, lord?’ he asked.

  Longo raised his eyebrows, surprised. ‘Fire? Yes,’ he replied carefully. ‘After all, it’s all the same.’ Then he looked at Luke, this time with speculation. ‘It is a pity that we caught no one last night. It would be useful to know why they didn’t go any further.’

  Luke continued to dig at the ground, lifting earth in his hands and smelling it before letting it run through his fingers.

  ‘Luke, did you see anyone?’

  The two men looked at each other. Then Luke smiled and nodded. Barely a nod.

  He said, ‘My lord, I have to ride south today to meet the men who did this. Not to punish them but to talk to them. Can you trust me?’

  Longo whistled quietly through his teeth. ‘I should have guessed. Who are they?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, lord,’ he said. ‘I think you know that.’

  Longo sighed. ‘Yes. Of course.’ He turned towards the house and, taking Luke’s arm, began to walk. Luke looked up at the balcony and saw Fiorenza standing there. She was watching them.

  ‘You may go,’ said Longo, ‘but I want you to take Fiorenza with you. She is Greek, Luke. Like you.’

  Luke saw there were two horses tethered below the balcony. This had been decided long ago.

  ‘We should leave immediately,’ he said.

  They did not speak on the ride south. The land was flattened and baked by a remorseless sun that annihilated colour and created stark contrasts of form. The well-ordered fields of the Sklavia estate soon gave way to rolling hills of scrub and grass and yellow broom which fell into valleys of olive and carob groves and the strange, stunted trees that Luke now knew to be mastic. The rivers were dry, their beds cracked and scattered with rocks and birds that stood on one leg, erect and motionless. The air was filled with the scent of aridity and stagnation and past abundance.

  Luke was absorbed by the rise and fall of the parted mane of his horse and the pimples of rough grey skin between. He thought vaguely of his Greek and Genoan loyalties and of the woman riding beside him who represented some version of both. And when he’d finished considering that, he thought of Anna and of a ride through the night, so long ago, when he’d felt nothing more complicated than the urge to protect.

  At one point they stopped to rest the horses and eat a meal of cold partridge, cheese and bread with good wine from a flask that had kept it cold. They ate and watched the horses crop the grass and nuzzle each other and toss flies from their noses.

  A week ago they would have talked. Or Fiorenza would have talked and Luke listened and enjoyed the rich cadence of her voice. Now there was comfort in silence.

  They rode on through the afternoon and its weight fell heavy on their shoulders and on the beaded necks of their horses. Fiorenza seemed unperturbed by the heat and sat upright and alert as if expecting a summons. Beneath a turban pinned with a wisp of jewel-set osprey, she wore a thin half-veil across her nose and mouth. Her belted tunic was of plain, unadorned cotton, which she wore loose so that she pass for either a woman or a boy.

  When the village came into view, they reined in their horses and watched the movement of people below. The villagers had seen them and were pointing them out to each other. In the low evening sun, the shadows of the scattered houses stretched long across the wide central street and divided a gathering procession into patches of separate movement. All were carrying something, a basket with food or a flask, and the air was full of excitement. A festival.

  ‘It’s the start of the kendos, the harvesting of the mastic. It goes on for the next six months,’ said Fiorenza. ‘They begin it with a night of drinking and love among the trees under the moon.’

  Luke looked at her. ‘Drinking mastic?’

  Fiorenza laughed. ‘You’ve not tasted it? I
t’s a medicine, not a recreation.’

  Beneath them a flask of wine was being passed along the line, its wicker sides catching the last sunlight. There was a call and someone looked up at them and raised it in salute. A burst of laughter followed and a dog rose and darted between the shadows. Luke saw a figure detach itself from the mass and shield its eyes, looking up. It was Dimitri and he waved.

  ‘Come, let’s join them,’ called Luke over his shoulder as he kicked his horse forward. ‘And, lady,’ he went on, ‘let me talk. It was I they allowed to live last night.’

  Fiorenza took up her reins and followed him down the winding track, adjusting her veil against the dust and evening insects. A thin smell came to them of lime and rotting vegetables among the poppied fields. A clutch of swifts and warblers darted up, startling the horses; a chaffinch rose as a blur and then flapped into yellow motion.

  The procession had begun to wind its way out of the village, down the hill towards the groves and orchards, but Dimitri walked forward to meet them. Beside him came the brawn of Marko and neither wore a smile of welcome.

  ‘It is an honour to greet you, magnificent lady,’ said Dimitri, bowing stiffly towards Fiorenza, his voice measured and without enthusiasm. ‘We didn’t expect such an honour.’

  Luke dismounted and led his horse to stand in front of Dimitri. ‘Dimitri, greetings,’ said Luke. ‘Princess Fiorenza is here because she understands this island better than anyone. Her counsel will be invaluable.’

  He looked back towards Fiorenza. ‘If the Princess wishes to dismount, then it would be my pleasure to present you to her.’

  In one graceful sweep of the leg, Fiorenza dismounted and walked towards the two men, her unveiled smile as dazzling as on the day Luke had met her. The dimples punctured her cheeks like buttons and she proffered a hand at an angle of tact, to be kissed or shaken as custom dictated.