The Court of Lions was a more or less accurate copy of the same at the Alhambra Palace in Al-Andalus, and had been built by her grandfather who’d sold horses to the Emir Yusuf. As might be expected, it had a fountain at its centre made up of an alabaster shell basin supported by twelve marble lions and a cloister round its sides whose horseshoe arches were supported by columns and muqarnas covered in fine calligraphy. The colonnade was paved in white marble and its walls were covered in blue and yellow Iznik tiles with borders above and below of enamelled gold. At one end, a pavilion had a map of the world drawn in coloured marbles on its floor.
Zoe was admiring the iridescent blue-green train of a peacock, hoping that the peahen nearby would offer enough for it to raise its tail. She admired the gaudy male of this species as much as she despised the female.
‘What do they eat?’
Zoe turned and looked up at the girl whose every feature was the opposite of hers. She looked at her hair which today was free of veil or flowers or ribbons and which fell to her shoulders like coppered gold. Her gaze travelled down a body whose curves gave shape to the simple tunic she wore. She looked up into viridian eyes.
‘What do you eat?’ smiled Zoe, getting to her feet and taking Anna’s hand. ‘I haven’t seen you looking so well in all the time I’ve known you.’
Anna coloured slightly and changed the subject. ‘Are they from India?’ she asked, looking towards the now fanned tail of the peacock which stood, ridiculously, facing them.
‘I think so,’ replied Zoe, following her gaze. ‘I believe they were a gift to my father from the Sultan Nasir who rules in Delhi and has a fondness for our wine.’
Anna let go of Zoe’s hand and walked over to a stone bench sheltered by a pergola woven with jasmine. Zoe came and sat by her side and they watched the peacocks which strutted and barked like bankers on the Rialto.
Anna said what Zoe had been waiting for her to say: ‘Prince Suleyman is here.’
Zoe looked at her and saw the tension that had hardened her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she said evenly. ‘I believe he is.’
There was a silence which each wanted the other to end.
‘What will you do?’ asked Anna eventually.
‘Apart from avoid him? Nothing much. What will you do?’
Anna looked back at Zoe and then beyond her to scan the courtyard behind. It was empty of anything but peacocks. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I heard what was said at Serres. Do you think there is a pact?’
Zoe took her hand. ‘I suppose it’s possible. But it was only Bayezid that mentioned it. If Suleyman had anything to do with it, why would you be here rather than at Edirne?’ She paused. ‘Could it be, perhaps, that Prince Suleyman is trying to protect you?’
‘From Bayezid?’ Anna shook her head. Bayezid preferred princes from Trebizond.
‘God knows,’ Zoe said, with bitterness, ‘I’ve no affection for Suleyman. But my father says that he’s not forgotten the day at Mistra when he first saw you in the forest. Perhaps he just wishes to protect you. Perhaps that’s why you’re here.’
Anna was still shaking her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
But then she thought of the long months at Serres and the impeccable politeness of a dark man with a pointed beard who could, at any stage, have ravished her.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said again.
‘Well, you must believe what you like,’ said Zoe. ‘For myself, I would rather not think about Prince Suleyman at all. Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘No, not that,’ said Anna.
Zoe knew what Anna wanted to know. ‘It is unlikely that he survived,’ she said gently. ‘The storm was terrible that night. One of our ships was driven as far as Santorini.’
The peacocks watched them, their heads erect.
‘We’ve had no news of Luke. I’m sorry.’
‘No. Well, it’s unlikely that you would,’ said Anna evenly, looking down into her lap and folding her hands. ‘He’s hardly a man of consequence.’
Anna thought of the scribbled message passed to her earlier. ‘There’s something else. I need to get off the Goulas, to go down to the lower town. Can you help me?’
Zoe nearly asked why but checked herself. ‘It might be possible, I suppose. With an escort.’
‘Can you get me one?’
While Zoe and Anna were sitting on their bench in the Court of Lions, Suleyman was lying on the bed in his tent high up on the roof, drinking sherbet and studying his toenails with no interest at all.
In front of him was a small man, on his knees, whose head was tucked between his shoulder blades and whose face was flat to the floor.
The Prince was irritated. ‘I can’t hear you properly. Stay on the floor but lift your head to me. Now say it again.’
The man’s beard was long and had got caught in a silver chain hanging from his neck. He grimaced with pain as it came free. ‘Majesty, I was saying that the Sultan your father is perhaps more exercised than he was about the new crusade from the west. As you know, the Voivode Mircea of Wallachia joined forces with King Sigismund of Hungary two years ago to take back their fortress of Nicopolis on the Danube frontier. It now seems the King has succeeded in finding common ground with more of his neighbours. Even Prince Vlad of Transylvania is wavering in his alliance with us.’
Suleyman flicked a fly from his sleeve and yawned. ‘I don’t think we need be unduly concerned,’ he said. ‘The King of Hungary has difficulty enough keeping order between all those Magyars and Slovakians and whatever other rubbish he rules over before taking us on.’
The man said nothing and held his hands, which were trembling, between his chin and the carpet.
‘What of the Prince Lazarević? Does my father trust him?’
‘The loyalty of the Serbian Prince is unquestioned, Majesty. After all, your father is married to his sister.’
‘It means nothing,’ said Suleyman nastily. ‘My father had the Prince’s father killed along with most of his relatives. He is likely to remember it … So what is there new to report? Everything we have so far discussed I already know. Stand up.’
The man stood with some difficulty. He was not young and his joints were stiff. ‘What is new, lord, is that a celebratory mass was held in the Cathedral of Saint-Denis in Paris last week at which the Duke of Burgundy’s eldest son, the Count of Nevers, swore himself to lead the crusade and to dedicate his first feat of arms to the service of God.’
‘But he’s a child!’
‘He will be the nominal commander, sire. It is the Marshal Boucicaut of France who will lead the army.’
‘Ah,’ said Suleyman, smiling. ‘Now, that’s better. Boucicaut is good.’
‘And, lord, the alliance he commands is now impressive. Apart from Burgundy, France and Hungary, it includes Venice, Aragon, many of the German princes and the Hospitallers. And of course Byzantium. England will send money and some archers.’
Suleyman whistled softly. ‘That is impressive,’ he agreed. ‘And what of the two Popes? Are the knights to get indulgences from both Rome and Avignon?’
‘Indeed, Majesty,’ said the man, quite seriously.
Suleyman stretched and stood up. He walked over to that part of the balcony where a buddleia, newly arrived from China, was attracting butterflies. The shrub’s white, tubular flowers, full of nectar, were covered in insects with heart-shaped wings of brown silk, veined with chrome. ‘Did you know,’ he murmured as much to himself as anyone else, ‘that the Ancient Greek word for butterfly was psyche, which is also the word for a man’s soul?’
He seemed transfixed by the creature. ‘And in the East,’ he went on, ‘they hold the superstition that if a butterfly chooses to perch on you, then the person you love is on their way to see you.’
Then Suleyman brought his other hand down on his arm so that the wet debris of the butterfly was scattered across his palm. ‘I do not believe in superstition,’ he said, lifting his palm and looking at it. He walke
d back to sit on the bed, wiping his hand on the sheet. A cat jumped up and licked what was left. ‘Now, what else?’
The older man cautiously wiped the sweat from his hands on the back of his caftan. ‘Some news from Chios, lord,’ he said.
‘Ah, Chios,’ murmured the Prince, a thin smile stretching his lips, ‘my father’s latest lover.’
‘The Sultan has forbidden any interference in the island’s affairs.’ The man hesitated, the next sentence caught somewhere near the top of his beard. Then he took courage. ‘So … I wondered, Majesty, where such an injunction might leave your plans with the Venetians.’
Suleyman looked up sharply. ‘Why should it change anything? Can I help it if these tiresome pirates insist on attacking the island? What could it possibly have to do with me?’
The man pretended to take this seriously. ‘Quite so, lord,’ he said, ‘but the pirates are attacking the very villages which make the mastic which has filled the holes in your father’s teeth. Or at least they were.’
‘Were?’ asked Suleyman. ‘What do you mean, “were”?’
‘Well, lord,’ went on the man, ‘the pirates were somewhat less successful in their last attack. It seems the villagers were better prepared for them. There is some talk of them building new villages with better defences And they’re being led.’
Suleyman looked up. ‘Led? By the Genoese?’
‘No, Majesty, by someone other. A young Greek.’
‘And do we know who this person is?’
‘Our friend on the island tells me that his name is Luca. Or at least that is the Italian version, lord.’
‘Luca?’
‘Yes, lord. Luca.’
Prince Suleyman was sitting on the edge of the bed and, the man was relieved but mystified to see, smiling now with real pleasure.
‘Luca,’ he murmured. Then he rose and walked to the wall and clapped his hands. The buddleia exploded with butterflies of every colour and the Prince made no effort to harm any of them. He turned.
‘I want you to bring this Luca to me as soon as humanly possible. I don’t care how you do it but I want him brought, unharmed.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘And you had better inform the Venetians that our raids must cease for a while.’
Later that evening, Anna was making her way to the steps to the lower town in the company of a huge giant janissary called Yusuf who apparently spoke no Greek and, judging by his silence, might not speak at all. Anna felt conspicuous in his presence, for he was startlingly ugly. Although the evening was warm, she wore a long, woollen cloak that fell to the ground and her head was covered by a hood pulled forward over her hair so that she looked like a monk.
Once through the gate of the Goulas, Yusuf bowed and turned back.
In the lower town, the lamps were beginning to be lit and all around was the clatter of preparation for the last meal of the day, cats assembling at doors for the promise of scraps. A donkey, chewing into a nosebag, was standing next to a cistern in a tiny square and its owner was filling amphorae while examining the catch of a fisherman who’d paused to open his bundle. The sea wall was close and the calls of late swimmers could be heard beyond its battlements. The scent of the sea was fresh and all around and moving in on a soft breeze to replace the hot, animal smells of the land.
She reached a small house at the end of a street with a low door in its wall and a window with a piece of coarse cloth hung for a curtain. Anna knocked on the door.
It was opened by Matthew, whose grin reached from ear to ear.
‘Lady, you are welcome,’ he said, and stepped back to let her pass. ‘Please come in. This is my father, Patrick.’
He gestured to a bearded colossus behind him whom she recognised. The man was standing, slightly stooped, in front of a table that ran the length of the room and around which sat the two other boys, Nikolas and Arcadius, and two older men, also lavishly bearded, who must be their fathers. On the table were the remnants of a meal. There were no women present and indeed little room for anyone else beyond the six gathered. A wooden staircase in one corner led to the room above.
Anna walked in and sat at the table. She looked from one to other of her friends. ‘Nikolas, Arcadius … I’m happy to see you. Are you well?’
The boys smiled at Anna but didn’t speak. Their fathers looked solemn. One of them spoke.
‘I am Basil and the father of Arcadius, Anna,’ said the man gravely. ‘We are well but a little hungrier than when you last saw us. We work as fishermen now and eat too much garon.’
One of the boys laughed but it had not been meant as a joke. All of them looked thin and gaunt and Anna realised what it had meant for these men when the Mamonases had first fled Monemvasia. The long-standing connection of Archon to Varangian had been severed forever and in its place had come janissaries and hunger.
‘Could you not have gone to Mistra?’ she asked.
Basil nodded. ‘We plan to go there. That is what we are here to discuss.’
Anna looked around at the faces all watching her. She smiled and placed her hands, folded, in front of her. ‘Your message said that there was someone who wanted to meet me.’
‘There is.’
It was a voice from heaven. Two sandals, then ankles, appeared at the top of the stairs. Everyone looked up and was rewarded by the sight of a descending philosopher clad from shoulder to shin in a toga of the purest white.
‘Georgius Gemistus Plethon, evacuee of Constantinople, at your service,’ said the man as he arrived on earth and, within the tiny space available, performed an awkward bow in Anna’s direction. He gathered an armful of toga and threw it carelessly over a shoulder before sitting down heavily on the last available chair. Then he lifted his beard, which was the longest in a room of long beards, and placed it delicately on the table in front of him, patting it down to the wood. ‘I have long wanted to meet you, Anna. We have a friend in common.’
‘We do?’ asked Anna in surprise.
‘Why yes, yes indeed. One Luke Magoris. Is he not a friend?’
Anna felt the room shift beneath her. ‘Luke? You’ve seen him?’
‘Seen him, conversed with him,’ replied Plethon brightly. ‘Indeed, it was only last week that I sat with him and debated the possibility that the world may be round. In Latin.’
‘Luke Magoris? Latin?’ She looked at Matthew, who sat halfway down the table and was regarding the angel, or prophet, as if he was mad.
‘Yes, Latin,’ replied Plethon testily. ‘The script we were discussing was written in Latin so it seemed prudent to interrogate it in the same tongue.’
The three boys and Anna exchanged glances.
‘Ah,’ went on Plethon, his voluminous eyebrows raised in new understanding, ‘yes, I see. You share the common conviction that the world is flat and stable. Well, we shall see. The Portuguese King Henry sends his ships further and further south each year and none have yet dropped off.’
There was silence around the table as each considered what they had heard. Then Anna spoke. ‘We do not know any Luke Magoris who speaks Latin,’ she said carefully.
‘No? Well he’s learnt. And more. I believe he’s competent in Italian as well. After all, on Chios he’s surrounded by the brutes. He has to be.’
For the first time, Anna was daring to fill her senses with the giddy taste of hope. She felt tipsy with its fumes and a feeling such as she’d not felt in months rose within her as this man’s words sank in. ‘He’s learnt? Luke is alive and has learnt Latin? And you are his friend?’
Plethon nodded impatiently. ‘I consider myself to be thus, yes.’ Then he looked quizzically at Anna. ‘But he said you were clever. You don’t sound very clever. He said that you had taught him things in a cave.’
Anna threw back her head and laughed. ‘Luke!’ she cried. ‘You’re alive and you speak Latin!’
Then she rose from her chair and, to the astonishment of all present, walked, or rather danced, over to Plethon and kissed him on h
is forehead.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said bringing her fingers to her lips as Plethon blushed and put a hand to his brow. ‘I hardly know you. But you know Luke and he’s alive and I will always love you for telling me that.’
Then Anna remembered where she was and why she was there. She turned, wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, this time to her embarrassed audience. ‘It was a surprise. I’m sorry.’
But Plethon was far from embarrassed. He was quietly chuckling to himself and staring with approval at Anna. She was every bit as lovely as Luke had described.
Then a throat was cleared. ‘The news is good,’ said Patrick, ‘and we must thank God for Luke’s deliverance. But time is short and we need to discuss other things. Plethon, I think you want to say something?’
‘I do, indeed I do,’ said the man, still looking at Anna, who was wiping tears of happiness from her cheeks.’ I believe you to be Varangians, yes? Descended directly from those who fled to Mistra from the desecration of our beloved capital by the Franks two centuries past?’
Three beards nodded slowly.
‘Good. Well, I’m speaking to the right men then.’ Plethon paused and stroked the long train of his own. ‘What is it that you believe they brought with them when they fled?’
The Varangians exchanged glances. None spoke.
Plethon waited a while for an answer. Then he asked simply, ‘If Luke has put his faith in me, would it not be reasonable for you, too, to trust me? I suppose not.’
Plethon sighed and a hand disappeared inside the folds at the front of his toga. When it re-emerged, it was holding a ring: large, gold and embossed with a double-headed eagle. It was pitted with age and glowed in the light of the candle.
‘This is the ring of Manuel, our emperor,’ he said. ‘It was given to me by the same five weeks ago when he bade me farewell from the sea gate of the Blachernae Palace. I passed through the Sultan’s blockade in a Genoese round ship from Pera which carried me on to Chios.’
Patrick leant forward and carefully lifted the ring from the open palm. He turned it into the light of the candle, examining it from every side. Then he passed it to David, Nikolas’s father.
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