Next to him stood the captain, his hand raised to deliver the order for the oars to be shipped and the two giant lateen sails raised. Luke looked up beyond the mast basket and saw the pennants of Byzantium stretch and buckle and point back towards the island. Towards Fiorenza.
Then the order was shouted and carried through the ship by others and the galley shuddered as the sails broke out and bellied, and 170 rowers, three to a bench, bent over their oars in relief. Luke looked down the long central gangway to the marine crossbowmen gathered on the fighting-stage of the prow next to a single catapult. He thought, without connection, of Eskalon. This galley was a katergon rather than a taride and therefore not adapted to carry horses. He’d had to leave Norillo behind and he’d been surprised by how little it had mattered to him.
Eskalon. Are you somewhere in this world?
Luke looked out at the grey expanse of sea, at the curve of the waves as they rose, white-tipped, in a rising wind and pounded the sides of the ship. They were alone in this sea, the other galleys having left, with his friends aboard them, from Chora two days before. Nine galleys with holds crammed with alum while his was filled with bales of mastic. All were headed for Venice.
And, as agreed with Marchese Longo all those months past, the entire profit from the sale of this first shipment from the new port of Limenas would go to Luke. He smiled.
Or to the Empire.
Luke knew that Plethon would be in Venice. He’d worked with Benedo to create a compound of mastic and other elements that might or might not work as a dye fixative. They’d know for sure in Venice since it was the colour capital of the world. If it did, then the profits could be enormous and Plethon would know how best to use them to the Empire’s advantage.
The reunion with his three friends had been, at least in part, joyous. He’d learned that his mother, while still a prisoner, was now at least imprisoned in her home. He’d make sure that a small part of the profit from the mastic would somehow get to her. He’d learned that Monemvasia was little changed by the presence of a regiment of janissaries within its walls and that the little city on the edge of the sea continued to prosper as it had always done. But over everything had hung the cloud of Fiorenza and what he’d done with her, and of Anna, whom he’d betrayed.
Anna who was now with Suleyman.
Luke shivered and drew the cloak around him.
‘Sad to leave?’
It was the captain who’d spoken and Luke turned to a handsome man of middle age who was watching the sails and testing the tension of a stay. He didn’t have the air of a sailor, being neat in quilted surcoat beneath his cloak. His boots were long, expensive and wet.
‘I was asking myself the same question,’ replied Luke.
A sudden surge caused the galley to lurch and Luke took hold of the deck rail. Rain had begun to fall in bursts, carried by the gusting wind, driving his cloak against his legs. ‘Should we go closer to the shore?’ he asked.
The man shrugged. ‘There is no shore. It’s all open sea from here to the straits between Negroponte and Andros. But this is a good south-westerly and it will take us there in two days.’
‘And if the wind drops?’
‘Then we row. At twenty strokes a minute, we can cover six miles in a day. We’ll be home in two weeks.’
‘Home?’
‘I am Venetian, can’t you tell? Or did you miss the horns?’
Luke smiled. He said, ‘We have two weeks together. Why don’t we begin by assuming that we know nothing, good or bad, about the other? Then perhaps we will enjoy two voyages: one to Venice and another into each other’s story.’ He paused. ‘I would like to hear yours, at least.’
The captain looked at him and his eyes were half closed against the rain. Water rolled down his cheek and collected in a fold in the coat. ‘I have some good wine in the scosagna. We can’t do more here. Let’s go below.’
Inside the cabin it was warm and cushioned and there was a fug that came from a wood-burning stove, which was slightly smoking. Light was diffused through small windows and a latticed lantern had been lit which swung heavily in the swell. Several good pieces of furniture occupied the low space that had the musky air of a seraglio. A flask of wine and several tin cups sat on a battered oak chest.
Luke walked in and removed his cloak, then his boots, and accepted a cup. He sank into deep, tassled cushions.
‘You have two questions in your mind,’ began the captain after emptying his cup in one gulp and wiping his beard on a sleeve. ‘First: why is a Venetian sopracomito in the employ of your empire, and second, why is Venice apparently supporting both sides in this impending crusade? Am I right?’ As he spoke he removed one of his gloves, finger by finger, to reveal long and delicate hands that might have belonged to a harpsichord-master.
‘More or less,’ said Luke.
‘Well, it is the circumstances which answer them,’ said the captain. ‘But first, names. Mine is Niccolò di Vetriano, Knight of the Order of San Marco.’
‘And mine Luke Magoris, born in Monemvasia and latterly of the island of Chios.’
They nodded to each other and Luke raised his cup from his cushion. So this was a Venetian nobleman. He was different in tone from the preposterous Rufio, but was he different in morals? Was each Venetian as venal as the next?
The captain studied him through narrowed eyes as he removed his other glove with his teeth and unbuckled the belt that held his cinquadea short sword at his hip. Then he unbuttoned the front of his surcoat and poured himself some more wine. He sat on a low stool and leaned forward from the waist.
‘So, why is a Venetian sailing this ship?’ he went on. ‘Why do Byzantium and Venice have bad blood between them? Questions.’ He paused. ‘Another question. Is it not usual for a father and son to both love and hate each other at the same time as one takes over from the other? Especially if they are alike?’
The Venetian drank more wine. ‘So it’s the same with Byzantium and Venice. Everything we have, we have from you. Our clothes, our titles, our buildings, our rituals. Even our horses. The four horses on top of our Cathedral of San Marco? They came from your Hippodrome. We owe you everything, yet we can no longer support you in your old age. We are not a good child.’
Luke was silent, swaying with the movement of the ship. It was rolling heavily now and he could hear the sounds of a sail being lowered outside.
‘Then there’s the thorny issue of the Crusade. Imagine. We ferried the robbers and rapists to your walls and then demanded money to pass you by. And when you couldn’t pay, our blind doge led them over the walls. Even your fierce Varangians couldn’t stop the slaughter that night. You still hate us for that and you’re right to.’
A large wave made the boat heel over and some wine lost itself in the rich reds of the carpet.
‘That night we took away your empire and created our own. A third of all your territories went to us. We took all your islands and trading posts so that we could dominate the trade of the Middle Sea. We snapped up your colonies on the cheap. We bought Crete for thirty pounds of gold. Have you seen the Sposalizio?’
Luke shook his head.
‘It’s the ceremony of our marriage to the sea. Every year we throw a ring into the lagoon and everyone cheers. We got that from you, too. So why don’t you do it any more? Because you have ten galleys and we have two hundred. Because you don’t have any sea left.’
The captain lifted his short sword and placed it on a chest from where it slid noisily to the floor with the next roll. He trapped it with his foot.
‘So now there are some new robbers and rapists who wear turbans and fight with swords that aren’t straight. And they’re not even Christian. But that hasn’t stopped us from plotting with them to bring about your final downfall. From which, of course, we expect to do well.’
He paused again. ‘But we’ve come up against a problem. These new robbers in their turbans seem to want boats. This isn’t as it should be; they were always gazis of the steppe,
not mariners. We are the mariners. And doesn’t that mean that they can now reach all those islands and trading posts? Suddenly we feel nostalgia for our father’s tiresome rituals and old-fashioned manners.’
He looked directly at Luke. ‘So now we talk to the Duke of Burgundy about his crusade. But sotto voce, of course.’
‘While you make cannon for the Turk,’ said Luke. ‘Cannon big enough to bring down Constantinople’s walls.’
‘Do we?’
‘You know you do. And the Turk has promised you Chios in return.’ Luke paused in his turn. ‘What do you know of this crusade?’
‘Only that it may fail,’ said the Venetian. He didn’t sound particularly disappointed. ‘There’s no unified leadership,’ he went on, ‘and the Comte de Nevers is wasting his time jousting with the German princes instead of hurrying to Buda to join up with the Hungarian army. The crusaders may be the flower of French and Burgundian chivalry but they’re too vain, too complacent and, worst of all, are giving Bayezid time to prepare. Are you determined to join it?’
Luke nodded again. ‘I’m a Varangian,’ he said simply. ‘I can be useful.’
‘I don’t doubt that. Your three friends were on my galley on the way to Chios. I saw them practise with their axes. They are fine fighters.’
‘We were taught well,’ said Luke, and then added pointedly, ‘and we listened to our fathers.’ He paused. ‘So what will Venice do for this crusade? Sotto voce.’
The captain shrugged. ‘I dare say we will carry provisions up into the Black Sea and sail down the Danube to meet the army. Perhaps we will give them your mastic for their wounds.’
That halted the conversation.
‘You will get a good price for it,’ said the Venetian, ‘especially if it fixes dye as well.’
Luke frowned. How had he known this? But then, how could he not? The compound had been put in separate jars and Limenas was a place of gossip. He changed the subject. ‘The Christian army will be large. France, Burgundy, Hungary, Germany, Austria and the Knights Hospitaller. An alliance like this has never been seen before. The Turks will be stopped.’
Di Vetriano managed a smile but it was bleak. ‘Perhaps, perhaps. I hope so.’
‘So that’s Venice. What about you?’ asked Luke.
‘I am doing penance,’ said the captain sourly.
‘Penance? Penance for what?’
‘I was the captain of a great galley once,’ said the Venetian. ‘It was, perhaps, the finest galera ever to come out of the Arsenale. Four banks of oars; four hundred rowers. It could cover eighty miles in a day and turn back to front on a ducat. Magnificent.’
Luke had seen the great galleys of Venice off Monemvasia. The entire population turned out to watch them come in. It was one of the greatest spectacles on earth.
‘Mine was called the Vetriana. Did you know that all sopracomiti call their ships by the female version of their name? It was used for all our important dealings with the Turk,’ he went on. ‘I spent much of my time sailing between Venice and Edirne, ferrying men to meetings to discuss new ways to dismember your empire. I got to know the Sultan’s court well.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Luke.
‘I got carried away. I learnt their language and made friends with a eunuch in the harem, bribed him to let me see inside it. Just see, that was all. But we were caught and he was strangled with a bowstring and I was demoted. Now I am on secondment to your empire.’
‘And what did you learn at the court of Bayezid?’
The Italian looked up slowly. ‘That the Sultan is a man of strange desires which are too often frustrated by toothache.’ He smiled. ‘So Chios is spared for now. Because of a man who can fill holes.’
The Venetian was yawning now, showing unfilled teeth between lips half hidden by a fringe of tailored beard. ‘You probably know him.’
Luke didn’t answer because it hadn’t been a question. He felt dog-tired and the effects of the wine were creeping over him. The cushions beneath were soft and there was a skin on the floor that would cover him. He lowered his head on to velvet and closed his eyes.
It was sometime after dawn on the second day that he and the captain were awoken by the news that two Saracen galleys were approaching from the Negroponte Straits.
‘What are they flying?’ asked di Vetriano, climbing the stairs to the aft-deck and rubbing his eyes.
‘No crescent, lord,’ said the boatswain. ‘Anyway, the Sultan’s fleet is at either Constantinople or Chios.’
‘Mamelukes?’
‘That or corsairs, lord. Shall I run for shore?’
‘Do we have time? I doubt it.’ The captain had, by now, buckled on his cuirass. He turned to Luke. ‘There’s armour in that chest,’ he said. ‘Put it on and join me on deck.’
Luke emerged on to the deck to see the rowers pulling hard for the shore and the marines, all armoured, crowding the foredeck with crossbows at the ready. Out at sea, to their front, were two Turkish galleys driving fast across the water to cut them off. It seemed likely that they’d succeed.
The ships were low, sleek and built for speed. Their sails were furled and they each had a small boat slung between mastheads crammed with bowmen. The ships’ sides glittered with bright, turbaned helmets and chain mail and there was no doubt at all of their intention.
Luke was standing next to the captain. ‘Isn’t Negroponte Venetian?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ said the captain. ‘It seems the pirates do not respect Venetian authority.’
The two galleys were now directly ahead of them and close enough to hail. They had stopped and a bristle of oars hung either side above the water.
Now Luke could see more. There were bombards between the soldiers at the sides, their barrels pointed downwards. And at the bow and stern were bigger cannon, aimed higher, at their rowers.
The captain swore softly at his side.
‘Can we fight?’ asked Luke.
‘Yes, and we can be blown to bits by those cannon.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We see what they want.’
He hollowed his hands to shout. ‘By what authority do you prevent our progress? We are under the protection of Venice and these are Venetian waters.’
At first there was no answer but something moved behind the serried ranks of men at the ship’s sides. Flashes of more opulent colour appeared behind them and a small man with a pumpkin for a turban climbed the steps on to the stern deck. He looked more like an official than a soldier.
‘You have one they call Luca on your ship?’
The captain lowered his loudhailer and looked at Luke. ‘What do I say?’ he asked.
‘My name is not Luca.’
The captain looked at him without expression. Then he raised the loudhailer again. ‘We have no one of that name on board!’ he shouted.
The turban rose again. ‘We have cannon. You cannot win this battle. You can only drown. Give us Luca and you can go on your way.’
The captain looked at Luke. ‘I don’t think we have any choice.’
Luke glanced at the shore. ‘I could swim,’ he said. ‘If they see me in the water they won’t fire at you and I might just make it.’
The captain looked at the islands ahead. ‘You’d never make it,’ he said. Two marines had moved silently behind Luke and now stood either side of him. The captain nodded to the boatswain who turned to the ship’s longboat.
And then Luke understood. This had been planned. A Venetian captain and a course set for Venetian Negroponte.
‘You bastard,’ he said quietly.
The captain looked unembarrassed. ‘I cannot endanger my crew,’ he said. ‘And they have cannon.’
Niccolò di Vetriano, Knight of the Order of San Marco, had turned his back and the two marines took Luke’s arms. He was led to the side and below him the small boat was being lowered into the water.
He would not join the crusade.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CONSTANTINOPLE,
SUMMER 1396
Passing the ruins of Troy by night, Luke dreamt of Achilles whose ghost travellers sometimes claimed to see stalking the shallows there.
The following day and night took him through the Dardanelles and into the Sea of Marmara and, as the first tentacles of dawn crept over the rim of the world, he found himself awake and attentive to the splash of the oars and the staggered pull of the boat as it made its way towards Constantinople.
For a while he lay still in the cabin and enjoyed the luxury of a goosedown mattress made for someone of greater consequence than he. The room was heavily perfumed by small braziers of lavendered wood and the noise outside was muffled by thick damask hangings that covered the door and windows. He was able to think clearly of the past five days when, having been relieved of his sword and armour, he’d been given freedom to move around this ship. The plump official appeared to be the only other speaker of Greek on board and had kept steadfastly to his cabin, leaving Luke to his thoughts.
And his thoughts were in turmoil. His carefully laid plan to go to Venice and sell his mastic was in ruins. But Plethon was there and knew what he wanted to do. His determination to go thence to Monemvasia to find Anna had been disrupted by the news that she was with Suleyman. But wasn’t Suleyman at Constantinople conducting the siege?
That way lay hope, for Luke had guessed from the stars where they were going.
Constantinople.
Constantinople. City of the Thrice-Blessed Virgin, ex-Tabernacle on Earth of the Bride of the Lord. Once the greatest city on earth, whose wealth had shimmered in the beaten gold of its domes and the veined marble of its palaces. Constantinople. Built between two continents and two seas, frontier of both Christendom and Islam.
Constantinople: Kizil Elma, the Red Apple.
Now, as they approached it, Luke could hardly contain his excitement. He rose, put on his shirt and hose, pulled a cloak around him and walked out on to the deck. The sea around the galley was indigo and dolphins surfed its waves, chasing the oars and diving across the bows. Up ahead was a mass of land turning to orange with the new light rising in the east.
The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1 Page 30
