Luke steered Norillo towards the castle at the north end of the bay, passing between windmills that turned their latticed blades to the breeze that crept in from the sea, and was soon riding across the moat and through the Porta Maggiore with its gaudy Giustiniani arms above.
Luke looked down and saw grass stains on his hose. He had not shaved and, despite his bathe in the stream, could still smell the scent of Fiorenza on him. The Adorno Palace was nearby and he knew that Signor Gabriele’s stout wife had a fondness for him and that her husband was most probably on his estate on the Kambos. He would find fresh clothes there and tools for shaving. He turned towards it.
An elderly servant answered to his knocking and seemed unsurprised to see him. Opening the door, he bowed as low as he was able and ushered Luke past him and into a large hall ringed with tapestries of the hunt. Its floor was of black marble and provided Luke with a clear reflection of his appearance.
‘I wondered …’ he began, but the man put his finger to his lips and beckoned him towards the stairs where a second servant was offering a glass of something that Luke didn’t want to drink.
Again he tried to speak but was hushed politely and the finger pointed upstairs. It seemed there was someone asleep, or perhaps at prayer, above who was not to be disturbed, although the palace was large and on at least three levels. Luke made signs to leave but the retainer was insistent that he follow him and Luke agreed, straightening his pourpoint and checking his buttons.
At the top there was a curving balcony and several closed doors and one that was slightly ajar, and which had voices coming from the other side. The servant gestured towards it and Luke walked forward and opened the door.
The first person he saw, seated with others around a large mahogany table, was Marchese Longo. By his side, in clothes he did not recognise, sat his wife, the Princess Fiorenza of Trebizond.
The others around the table were all male and constituted a gathering of the shareholders of the Campagna Giustiniani. There were the signori of the Banca, the Campi, the Arangio families, and all the rest, and at their head sat their solid host, the elderly Gabriele Adorno.
He rose when Luke entered. ‘Luke … a surprise,’ he said bowing slightly and smiling with what seemed genuine pleasure. ‘We hadn’t expected you, but it is fortuitous that you have heeded the call. It is your navy that we expect at any hour to grace our harbour and we have assembled here to agree what is to be done.’
Luke realised that he’d been staring at Fiorenza. He recovered and allowed himself to be led to a chair. ‘Forgive my appearance, my lords,’ he said, sitting down. ‘I have ridden fast.’
He looked around the table. Fiorenza was looking at him with one eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smile playing at the edges of her lips.
Gabriele Adorno nodded absently and then turned from Luke to the business of the meeting. He addressed his fellow signori.
‘My friends, the galleys of the Byzantine fleet will be in our harbour by nightfall. We need to agree how we will receive them. Marchese, please.’
Longo got to his feet and walked over to where a large map of the Middle Sea had been pinned to an easel. He drew his dagger and used it as a pointer.
‘The fleet has come from the port of Palea, above Monemvasia, where it has sheltered since learning that the Ottoman fleet is equipped with cannon,’ he said. ‘We don’t know its destination but we can suppose Constantinople. The arms they carry on their decks would suggest that they mean to have another try at breaking the blockade, despite the cannon.’
He paused and his dagger travelled the map. ‘Gentlemen, we Genoese have created a trading empire across the eastern Middle Sea and up into the Black Sea. Its centre has always been Constantinople, or at least our port of Pera, across the Golden Horn, and we have been a good ally to the Empire.’
He stepped back from the map and lowered his dagger. He looked at the men gathered around the table. ‘But we have to acknowledge the possibility that Constantinople will fall, and may fall soon. And we have to recognise that the Turks may become a naval power to rival ourselves and Venice. They have already approached our brothers in Genoa about the possibility of us building ships for them and they’ll be doing the same at the Serenissima.’
He paused and lowered his voice. ‘But perhaps the worst thing we must face, gentlemen, is that we may have been backing the wrong party all these years, and the Venetians may now be backing the right one.’
Marchese walked over to the table and placed his two fists on it as he leaned forward.
‘If I may put it plainly, signori,’ he said softly, looking from one to the next, ‘if Constantinople falls, then next to fall will be our island and the Turks will have a ready ally in Venice. It is on this basis that we should decide whether or not to give shelter to the Byzantine navy.’
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table broken only by the asthmatic breathing of Adorno. ‘But our tribute, Marchese,’ he said. ‘Would the Turk so readily risk such a source of revenue? The Venetians are hardly reliable.’
‘No?’ answered Longo. ‘We’ve always believed that. We’ve always thought that only we Genoese understood the alum business which pays our tribute so handsomely. But look at Trebizond.’ Here he turned briefly to Fiorenza as if she were its embodiment. ‘The Venetians cheated us out of the alum monopoly from the mines at Karahissar and have learnt how to ship and trade it from Trebizond. They could do the same here. Why not?’
Still none of the signori spoke.
‘So, I ask again: are we about to antagonise the Turk by revictualling the navy of its enemy?’
Then Zacco Banca spoke. ‘We may not be able to pay the tribute at all if we can’t ship our alum. Remember, the Turkish pirates captured three of our round ships last month and another two last week. Now we have this blockade and no way of getting to our markets in the west.’
‘Indeed,’ said Giovanni Campi. ‘So what, Marchese, are you proposing that we do?’
‘I don’t see we have any choice, my lords,’ he said quietly. ‘I fear we must refuse entry to this fleet.’
Fiorenza said softly, ‘My lord, this is unworthy.’
Longo gazed down at his wife and there was love and sadness in his eyes. ‘Unworthy? Yes, lady, it is unworthy. But what else would you have us do? This Empire is doomed and our duty must be to Genoa. To Chios. To ourselves and’ — he glanced at Luke — ‘to our children.’
The sadness in Marchese Longo’s eyes was in those of every other one of the Genoese sitting around the table and the noises of the city outside were suddenly inside the room amidst the long silence. A decision had been made about loyalties and honour and every one of the signori wanted to be somewhere where they might better convince themselves that it had been the right one.
Then Luke spoke. ‘There is another way.’
The heads turned to him with impatience. The difficult decision had been made. And he was not one of them, not of the Campagna Giustiniani.
‘Let Luke speak,’ said Fiorenza. ‘It is his island too.’
Longo looked from his wife to Luke. ‘By all means speak, Luke,’ he said and sat down.
Luke rose to his feet and walked the length of the table until he reached Fiorenza and the map. ‘My lords,’ he began, ‘I have lived amongst you now for some time. You have been kind to me and I hope that I’ve done you some service in return. I know you to be worthy men and that any decision you make today will be as honourable as the times allow. But there is another way, which will serve all parties, I believe.’
‘Another way?’ asked Longo.
‘Yes,’ said Luke. ‘What if the fleet is, in fact, admitted to the harbour here at Chora, and the Megas Doux and his captains received with all the pomp we can muster? What if we then offer them an alternative as to where they might go next? The Empire needs two things to survive: success for the crusade that is assembling in the west, and money. What if we persuade the Megas Doux to instead take his ships to Venice, an
d to go with their holds full of our alum? From Venice they can put themselves at the disposal of the Duke of Burgundy’s crusade and the Empire can take a generous share of the proceeds from the alum.’
There were frowns on every face around the table now, except that of Fiorenza. Gabriele Adorno’s frown was the darkest of all.
‘But, Luke,’ he said, ‘I can think of at least two reasons why this is a bad idea. First, why would we want to lose profit on our alum? Second, why would the Turk be any less annoyed with us if the fleet goes to support the crusade being sent against them?’
‘My lord,’ Luke went on, ‘surely it’s better to make some profit on our alum rather than the none we’ll make if it rots in our warehouses here? In former times you might have expected help from other Genoese carriers, but they are all in the Black Sea and cannot get past Constantinople.’
‘All right,’ said Longo, ‘but what of Gabriele’s second point? Surely the Turk will punish us for giving the fleet shelter?’
‘Possibly,’ acceded Luke, ‘but he may punish us more for not giving him his tribute. And we can only do that if we sell the alum which, you must be aware, is reaching record prices since the Venetian convoys from Trebizond can’t get through.’
Now the first of the nods began and, Luke was pleased to see, it came from Longo, who said, ‘Am I right in assuming your mastic plays a part in this somewhere?’
Luke nodded. ‘Yes, it does. We’ve discovered that the mastic works well as a sealant for wounds. Very useful for an army. It may even do what alum does. It will fetch a good price in Venice.’
The nods were universal now. No matter how hard the signori poked at it, the plan seemed sound — even brilliant. It would allow them to do what they most desperately wanted to do before knowing the outcome of the impending crusade: remain neutral.
Marchese Longo rose. ‘Let us prepare ourselves for the Megas Doux then.’
What Luke knew, Fiorenza suspected and the signori didn’t, was that the Megas Doux had never had any intention of going to Constantinople. It had always been his plan, indeed his orders, to go to Chios and then on to Venice and the support of the Crusade.
Standing at the top of the long ramp down to the sea, Luke was studying the impressive heavy artillery on board the ten galleys that had dropped anchor in the bay. He smiled in anticipation of meeting certain members of the party now being rowed towards him in the best of the campagna’s barges. He thought of that meeting with Plethon all those months ago.
The Venetians only listen to money and that’s the one thing that the Empire doesn’t have.
The barge was a gilded affair and, curiously, modelled on the Venetian version. It had eight oarsmen to a side, all in Giustiniani colours, and a low silk awning at the back beneath which the Megas Doux and his entourage would be sitting in great comfort. Above the tall rudder flew two flags, those of the Campagna Giustiniani and the Empire. The flag of the Empire was on top.
A pale moon had risen above the bay and the sun was setting in a riot of red and orange that threw its colour across the water like spilt paint. A dozen ducks rose and arranged themselves in formation and headed noisily inland and everywhere was the low burble of excited talk. This was an event not to be missed by the people of Chios. Or Scio.
‘They’re taking their time,’ said Longo irritably, who stood beside Luke dressed in magnificent black and gold figured silk.
Luke stared out across the water. He would have to find the right moment to tell them of his decision to leave, although he suspected that one of them, at least, already knew it. He looked at Fiorenza and saw that she was entirely composed. She was dressed in the Trapezuntine, rather than Genoese, style, in a high-necked, narrow gown of pale cream damask with buttons of embroidered silver at its front. The cloth glowed slightly in the last light of the sun and its long, fluted sleeves half covered her folded hands, corded with rings. Her expression was unreadable.
Soon the barge was close to the quay and its oars were in the air and a trumpet sounded amidst the banners behind. The reception party readied itself to receive the Admiral of the Byzantine fleet.
The Megas Doux turned out to be a small man of middle age weighed down by cuirass and gold and, perhaps, the responsibility of preserving his little fleet. Nevertheless, he was a man of energy and he leapt nimbly from barge to quay and the welcome of the twelve signori of Scio.
But Luke hardly glanced at him, or at the ten captains that followed him. Instead he looked into the dark area below the awning for its other passengers. Then there they were, emerging one by one and dressed as he’d never seen them before.
Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius. All in the uniform of the Varangian Guard.
It was two years since he’d seen them last and the tread of seasons seemed to have left little imprint. Matthew had a new beard, a thin thing of no direction, while Arcadius was stouter and limping. Luke had seen him in boats before and suspected a heavy wave. Nikko, finally, had less hair and seemed to be going the way of the entirely bald David. But all were ruddycheeked and filled their fathers’ Varangian armour to an inch.
Luke was behind the reception line, watching them search the crowd for him and whisper to each other. The Admiral and his captains had been properly greeted and were now moving slowly up the ramp towards the gates, led by Longo and two Genoese soldiers with flambeaux held high.
‘What took you so long?’
‘Luke!’ cried Nikolas, spinning around.
‘And what are you wearing?’ asked Luke, stepping back to take in the Varangian splendour. ‘They gave you those?’
Then the four of them were laughing and huddled together in a circular embrace and were boys again. And as they laughed and jostled each other, Luke felt a wave of love and memory break over him. They were boys without brothers who were better brothers than any he knew. They had shared stories and girls and blows on the training ground since they’d learnt to walk. They had a friendship that was higher than mountains and deeper than oceans and were any one of them to call out in need, be it only a whisper, it would be heard by the rest.
Luke remembered a rain-lashed jetty and a girl he’d meant to escape with. A girl they’d yet to mention. Did he dare? Not yet.
‘So you delivered the message?’
‘The Admiral didn’t think twice,’ said Matthew happily.
‘And the holds are empty?’
‘You can put in as much alum as you want, and there will still be room for all your money. I hear you’re rich.’
‘Not yet, but I’m practising,’ said Luke, still whispering. He paused. ‘But you’ve not told me of Anna. Where is Anna?’
The jostling stopped.
‘We don’t know,’ said Nikolas. ‘She went with Suleyman. It was part of the deal struck by Zoe to save our lives and to let Rachel leave the palace and go home. She’s probably at the camp at Constantinople.’
‘With Suleyman?’
There was silence in the huddle and Matthew was the one to break free. He stood in front of Luke and held his friend’s arms above the elbows. It was almost dark now, the flambeaux having gone with the signori, and they were enveloped by the deep shadow of the citadel wall.
‘You should know,’ he said quietly, ‘that Prince Suleyman is enamoured of her. I don’t know why … something to do with their first meeting at Mistra. And I don’t know if he’s even touched her yet. If he has it will have been against her will, you can be sure.’
Luke shook his head, unbelieving.
Anna at Constantinople. With Suleyman?
‘I shall go and get her,’ he said.
But Matthew shook his head. ‘From the Sultan’s camp? That’s impossible. You’d be killed.’
‘I have to try! What else can I do?’
A voice came from the shadows. ‘You can go to Venice, Luke. As you intended.’
Luke turned and saw the woman who, last night, had lain beneath him. Now she was half in shadow and that part of her face lit by the moon was
solemn. She moved away towards the gate and Luke followed her.
‘That was prettily done, Luke,’ she said softly when they were beyond the hearing of the Varangians. ‘Getting a message to the Admiral via your friends. You knew the fleet was going to Venice anyway?’
Luke was silent.
‘What would Marchese say if he knew you were deliberately diverting Giustiniani funds to aid the Empire?’
‘He would approve,’ answered Luke. ‘He is a good man. And a wise one.’
‘And would he approve of what happened last night?’ she asked.
‘No. He loves you.’
‘And I him.’
‘So why …?’ asked Luke.
‘Can’t you guess?’ The Princess from Trebizond reached up and put a soft hand to Luke’s cheek and let her thumb gently stroke its curve. There were tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve been used, Luke, yes. And you will hate me now and forgive me later.
‘So that’s why you must go. You must go to forget and, I hope, to forgive. You must go to Venice where Plethon awaits you. He’ll need you there to sign over to the Empire your profits from the mastic, as I know you’ve determined to do. And then you’ll go to the crusade with your friends and you’ll win. And when you come back, you’ll bring Anna and you’ll be rich, for the signori have, this afternoon, agreed to make you one of their number.’ She paused. ‘And, God willing, you might even greet our son.’
Then the Princess from Trebizond stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on both cheeks.
‘You are Escrivo, Luke,’ she said, and turned to go.
Three days later, Luke was standing on the stern deck of a trireme galley as it rowed to the beat of a drum out of the port of Limenas. The wind was boisterous under a leaden sky and his hair and cloak snapped in the blow as he watched the island of Chios, his home for two years, blur into distance.
The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1 Page 29
