The Walls of Byzantium tmc-1

by James Heneage

  Is that where you are?

  He heard a noise behind him and turned to find Matthew approaching, Nikolas and Arcadius behind. They were wearing armour but no helmets. All had swords in their hands and bows slung over their shoulders.

  Plethon put his finger to his lips as they approached. ‘We need to be quiet.’ He looked over his shoulder and then back. ‘Aren’t guards supposed to be at this gate?’

  Matthew glanced around him. He nodded. ‘Yes. I saw them earlier. Albanians.’

  Albanians.

  Plethon frowned. He said, ‘we are going up to the church. I think Anna’s inside, with Zoe and quite possibly others. Look to your weapons.’

  They set off through the gate, taking care where they placed their feet. Even if Zoe was inside the church, there might be Albanians keeping guard outside it. As the four of them approached the square in front of the church, they saw silhouettes of men sitting on the wall, each with a drawn sword. There were three of them.

  Matthew and the other two crouched down beside Plethon. ‘One each,’ whispered Matthew. ‘I’ll take the one on the left.’

  ‘And I’ll take the one on the right.’ said Nikolas. ‘That leaves the fat one to you, Arcadius. Think you can manage?’

  Arcadius grunted. The Varangians drew knives from their belts.

  Plethon put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Remember. Silently.’

  The three crept forward, more silent than shadows. To Plethon, watching with his breath held, it was as if they’d disappeared. Then, moments later, there was a small sound and no longer any silhouettes on the wall.

  Plethon gathered his toga and crept up the street to the wall. At the Varangians’ feet were three soldiers with their throats open. Matthew said, ‘there may be more inside the church. We should arm ourselves.’

  Leaving Plethon to find the steps, the three Varangians lifted themselves over the wall and fell noiselessly into the square. They took their bows from their shoulders and put arrows to their strings. They edged their way around the cistern, grateful for the yew’s shadow, their bows at the ready.

  Ahead of them, the door to the church opened and two Albanians appeared, closing the door behind them. The men were carrying ropes and pulleys. Matthew nodded to Nikolas. Seconds later, the Albanians lay on the ground, arrows in their necks and the apparatus for lifting all around them. They had died as silently as the Varangians had intended. Five down was good but how many more were there?

  Plethon joined them, his toga too bright in the quarter-moon. He rose to go to the door. Matthew’s arm stopped him. ‘No. We go first.’

  Plethon opened his mouth. ‘But…’

  He got no further. A scream rent the night. He looked at Matthew, his eyes wide with horror. ‘They’re killing her.’

  The Varangians rose and drew their swords. Matthew leading, they ran to the door. They turned the handle. Locked.

  ‘Arcadius,’ shouted Matthew. ‘Break it open.’

  They heard shouts inside. Arcadius stepped back, lowered his shoulder and charged the door. It wouldn’t budge. He tried again. No movement,

  ‘Help me,’ he said and the three of them lined up, shoulders down, and charged together. This time there was a crack.

  ‘Again!’

  This time the door broke and they crashed into the church. Two Albanians were there to face them but fell at the first sword strokes. Then there were two more, better fighters who managed a parry or two before they died.

  Plethon came into the church behind them. ‘Quick, the chapel.’ He lifted his toga and ran to it, the Varangians on his heels.

  Inside were a man and a woman standing either side of a casket. There were spades and a crowbar leaning against a pile of earth. The man had a crossbow in his hand.

  ‘Duck!’ yelled Matthew, pushing Plethon to the floor as a bolt whistled over their heads. Another arrow flew, this time from behind them. He looked up to see Richard Mamonas thrown back against the wall of the church, an arrow in his chest, amazement on his face. He fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft, then pitched forward onto the stone. He was dead.

  Zoe was looking around for something.

  ‘Don’t’ said Matthew, rising. His bow was aimed at her heart. “You’d be dead before you got to it.’

  Plethon got to his feet. He raked the chapel with his eyes. ‘Where is she?’

  Matthew was looking at the open grave ‘She’s in there. Nikki, Arcadius, get her.’

  The Varangians ran to the grave and Nikolas jumped in. A moment later he’d risen with Anna in his arms. Her head to one side and her eyes closed. She was a figure of clay, her hair a tangle of roots plucked from the earth. Plethon went over to her, looking down into a face without movement. There was blood on her lips.

  We were too late.

  ‘Lay her down. There.’ He turned to Zoe. She was perfectly still, staring at the casket. ‘Did you hurt her?’

  Zoe shook her head, her eyes vacant, unseeing. ‘She fell.’

  Plethon knelt. He took a fold of his toga and began to wipe the dirt from Anna’s face, the blood from her lips. Her mouth was open.

  She’s breathing.

  Her eyelids fluttered. He lifted a corner of the toga to them, using it to take away the earth. She opened her eyes. She looked at Plethon for a long time before she spoke.

  ‘Open it,’ she whispered.

  He knew what she meant. Plethon sat back on his haunches. He looked up at Matthew who was kneeling across from him.

  ‘Take Zoe and the others out of the church. Make sure no one comes in. No one.’

  Matthew began to say something, but stopped. Then he nodded and rose. He signaled to the other Varangians and they left the church, Zoe between them. There was a dull thud as the door closed.

  Anna had risen to her feet and was sweeping the remaining dirt from her clothes. There were bruises on her arms from where she had landed in the grave. She ran her hands through her hair and more earth fell to the ground. She wiped her hands on her thighs and took Plethon’s hand. ‘Come.’

  They found candles and brought them over to the casket. They saw that Richard Mamonas had broken two of the metal bands, leaving one intact. Plethon gave his candle to Anna, picked up the iron bar and put it between the metal and the wood. It broke easily.

  Then he sat back. Anna was by his side holding the candles and the casket was ready to open. They looked at each other, saw excitement and fear mirrored in each other’s eyes.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Plethon quietly.

  Anna looked down at the casket. She took a deep breath and nodded, once.

  Plethon placed his hands on the lid, his thumbs below the rim. He lifted it free and it slid to the ground. They looked into the casket.

  Inside was an object wrapped in layer upon layer of coarse cloth. The cloth was ancient and frayed and smelled of must and decay. A faint cloud of dust rose from it.

  The candles in Anna’s hands flickered as if a wind had passed. It was suddenly much colder in the chapel. She turned to Plethon and saw, in the candlelight, that he was ashen white. She took his hand and found that it was trembling.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ she whispered.

  Plethon didn’t answer at first. He seemed transfixed by what was before him. Then he nodded.

  Anna looked down. ‘What is it?’

  Slowly, slowly he turned to her and, as he did so, a cock crew somewhere further down the hill of Mistra. The sun had risen.

  ‘Something that will change the world.’

  In the monastery of Battal Gazi, the Venetian sopracomito had not believed the old man who was straddled above him in crucifixion. He’d seen the wretches in the Arsenale. He’d drunk the mixture himself and survived the plague.

  He was standing, legs apart, in front of Omar. He had removed his doublet and in one hand held a branding iron, which he was heating over the largest of the candles. The air smelt of singed flesh.

  ‘One more time,’ said di Vetriano.
‘Tell me where Magoris is and all this can stop. I’m losing patience.’

  A few Karamanid tribesmen were standing somewhere among the shadows of the crypt. Others were manning the monastery walls. The other Venetian, Fabio, was lounging against the door studying the pitted blade of his sword. The steady drill of rain on stone could be heard outside.

  Omar’s upper body was a mass of blisters where di Vetriano had applied the brand. Some were oozing blood and a yellow liquid that glistened as it ran. The old man’s eyes were closed.

  Di Vetriano sighed. He withdrew the brand from the flame and blew on it so that the metal glowed. He began to walk towards Omar.

  There was a banging behind him and he stopped. It came from the door. Fabio straightened and glanced at di Vetriano, who nodded. The door was opened.

  A Karamanid tribesman was standing there. He said something in a low voice.

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ Fabio said, turning. ‘Magoris is here. At the gate. He wants to come in.’

  A lightning flash lit into day the courtyard outside and, seconds later, a peal of thunder exploded into the room like cannon-shot.

  ‘He’s alone?’

  Fabio nodded.

  Di Vetriano turned to Omar. ‘Who says fortune only favours the good? He must want to save you.’ Then: ‘Fabio, tell them to bring him. And search him thoroughly.’

  They waited for Luke in silence. Omar’s eyes remained closed and his head was slumped to one side as if he was asleep. Di Vetriano made no attempt to inflict further pain on him but sat on the tomb contemplating first one boot, then the other. The branding iron was leant against the wall.

  At last the door opened and Luke walked in flanked by two tribesmen. He was wearing a long cloak that seemed more water than wool. His long fair hair was caked in dirt and straddled his face. The rain outside swept in and water quickly entered the crypt around him, spreading across the stone so that it soon seemed as if they were afloat.

  He stared up at Omar. ‘Cut him down, di Vetriano.’

  The Venetian shook his head. ‘I think not. You seem to me the sort of fool more likely to talk if someone else suffers. He’ll stay where he is.’ He rose to his feet and picked up the branding iron. ‘We’ll keep him there and you’ll talk and if you don’t I’ll burn him some more.’ He paused. ‘You’ll talk in the end, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  Luke said, ‘What do you want to know?’

  Di Vetriano walked over and sat on the smaller tomb. He picked up the crossbow and began to examine its mechanism, his brow furrowed. He was choosing his words. ‘When I last met you it was on a galley that had amongst its cargo some jars of mastic mixed with other ingredients. It was thought to fix dye.’

  Luke glanced beyond di Vetriano. Omar had opened his eyes and was looking hard at Luke. A trickle of blood had emerged at the corner of his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue.

  Vetriano said, ‘As precisely as possible, please tell me the formula.’

  Luke frowned. Surely the information was now useless? The tests had proved negative.

  What does it matter? I just have to keep him talking.

  He looked up at Omar, at his body scarred by fire, and wondered if he could hold on just a little longer. He thought of another man about the same age who’d stood before a city wall on another night of storm and swung his axe.

  Luke began to speak. He spoke of mastic and orange blossom and the distillations from twenty other flowers and herbs, all the while looking straight at Omar. He talked in Italian and Latin and he used his hands to clarify points. Di Vetriano couldn’t keep up.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘I need to write it down. Fabio, bring me a pen.’

  But Luke went on talking, but to Omar. He said, ‘The compound mixture is complicated. The amount of each ingredient must be mixed with exactitude. It is like Greek fire, which, they say, no one man ever knew the full formula of.’

  By now, the Venetian had the means to write. He bent over the parchment. ‘Say it all again. Slower.’

  Luke took a deep breath. At last he’d seen smoke. He felt like a necromancer summoning forth magic from the depths. He glanced at Omar. He’d seen it too, curling in wisps from the flagstones, gossamer-thin.

  Omar caught Luke’s eye and nodded.

  Understood.

  Di Vetriano was busy with his pen. ‘Say it again.’

  The Venetian Fabio had seen the smoke too. He opened his mouth to speak.

  But Omar spoke first. He looked round at the tribesmen and shouted: ‘Karamanids, you have defiled the tomb of Seyit Battal Gazi! You will burn in hell for this deed. See, the flames come for you!’

  Luke pointed to the wellhead, where the smoke was seeping more thickly through the cracks. The guards either side of him had seen it and were yelling to their kinsmen in the shadows.

  Di Vetriano looked up. He cursed and got to his feet. ‘What is this?’ He stared at the wellhead and then spun round to face Luke. ‘What have you done?’

  The Karamanids were now backing away from the smoke, their boots squelching in the water that was already an inch deep. There was a strong smell of sulphur. The man next to Luke turned and began to pull back the bolts on the door.

  Di Vetriano aimed his crossbow at the closest tribesman.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he shouted. ‘It’s just vapour!’ He moved to the wellhead, slung the crossbow over his shoulder and took the metal ring in both hands. ‘Help me!’

  A tribesman came over and took hold of the ring beside him. They both heaved.

  The two men fell back as the stone came up. Fire rose into the room with a roar, a livid tongue of orange and red that shot upwards the height of a man. When it fell back, the water around it caught fire. The floor of the crypt was ablaze.

  The Karamanids were already at the door, thrashing at their clothes, desperate to escape the wrath of the saint. The door opened and gusts of wind swept in over their heads, fanning the flames behind them.

  Di Vetriano had risen from the water, his clothes alight.

  ‘Fabio, get them back!’ he yelled, trying to sweep the fire from his shirt.

  But Fabio had other priorities. He’d tried to stop the tribesmen but they’d ignored his crossbow and pushed him back against a pillar. Then, as his finger had searched for its trigger, Luke had rushed him.

  Now the two of them were locked in an embrace, the Venetian’s back to the pillar. He’d managed to draw a dagger from somewhere and held it an inch away from Luke’s face. But Luke was stronger and the dagger was being forced slowly back so that, quite soon, it was pointing at the ceiling.

  Luke’s hand turned quickly on the man’s wrist and the dagger dropped. A second later, Luke’s forehead made contact with his nose and his knee came up into his groin. Fabio went down and, as he did so, Luke hit him again.

  Luke spun round.

  The sopracomito was standing behind Omar on top of the tomb. He had his forearm around the old man’s neck and the crossbow dug into his side. Omar’s face was knitted with pain but he uttered no sound. The beam above them was alight.

  ‘Ingenious,’ said the Venetian. ‘You set the cistern alight with Greek fire.’ He looked around the crypt at the carpet of fire around them. ‘Where did you get it?’

  Luke saw that di Vetriano’s finger was on the crossbow trigger and that his hand was shaking. He saw something wild in his eyes. He said, ‘Give me the old man, di Vetriano, and you can go.’

  But the Venetian was shaking his head. There was sweat coursing down his cheeks. He pulled Omar more tightly to his chest and the old man grimaced. Still no sound came from him. ‘Oh no. I will leave this place,’ he said, pressing the crossbow into Omar’s side, ‘and the old man will be my way out.’

  ‘You won’t make it,’ said Luke. ‘You have one crossbow bolt and the Karamanids have fled. Be sensible, Vetriano.’

  The Venetian was untying Omar’s hands with one hand, keeping the crossbow aimed at Luke with the other. He stepped
down, pulling Omar with him. The water was no longer alight and there was only smoke rising from the wellhead. He moved to its edge, glancing down. He brought the crossbow bolt to Omar’s neck.

  ‘Where is your accomplice, Magoris? The one with the Greek Fire?’

  Luke didn’t answer. He’d heard movement behind him.

  Fabio.

  The other Venetian had got to his knees, sweeping the blood from his nose and eyes with his arm and shaking his head. Luke could hear him searching in the water for his weapon.

  Di Vetriano said, ‘Fabio, go and find the man with the Greek Fire.’

  But Fabio wasn’t listening. He saw no reason why Luke shouldn’t die before he went anywhere. He’d found the dagger and was wiping the blade against his sodden shirtsleeve. He stood up.

  ‘Fabio?’

  Fabio staggered forward, lifting the blade to strike. One step, two steps. Then he stopped. His mouth was open, blood spilling over his bottom lip. He let out a groan and fell forward into the water. Vinsanto red.

  Bennedo Barbi was standing in the courtyard with a crossbow in one hand and rain drumming on his shoulders. In his other hand was a canister strap.

  Vetriano laughed. ‘Thank you, Barbi. I’d have done the same myself but I need the bolt. Now throw me the canister.’

  Barbi didn’t move. Di Vetriano pressed the crossbow bolt further into Omar’s neck. ‘Magoris, tell him to do it.’

  Luke said, ‘throw it, Benedo.’ His voice was flat.

  Barbi walked up to the doorway. With a metallic crash, the canister landed at di Vetriano’s feet. He kicked it into the wellhead and they heard a splash.

  ‘You’re right, of course, Magoris. I’d not get far with all those trigger-happy monks outside. So I think I’ll leave in the same way that you, presumably, got in. I imagine there’s an outlet somewhere. I’m sure I’ll find it’ He glanced down at the hole. ‘The water’s no longer aflame and without the Greek Fire, you won’t be able to re-light it.’