The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles)

by James Heneage

  ‘No,’ she said, wiping her lips. ‘No, not now. Not yet.’

  Suleyman was breathing hard, his nostrils moving. He looked away. ‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘You are in mourning.’

  Anna felt her heart beating loud enough to be heard. She was not in mourning because Luke was not dead. She was as sure of it as she was that there was a message in the news. They were silent for a while, both looking ahead, no part of them touching the other. Then Anna said: ‘The Varangians. Their friend is dead and I have agreed to the annulment. They must be released from their oath to Bayezid and allowed to go home.’

  Suleyman frowned. There had always been conditions. Was this all part of it, part of why he loved this woman with fire for hair and jewels for eyes?

  ‘Very well.’

  *

  Watching the scene from the balcony of a bedroom that wasn’t hers was the Valide Sultan Gülçiçek. She was propped up on a bed and sitting on it with her was her son, the Sultan Bayezid. The bed was pulled back so that it couldn’t be seen from below. A sunshade was above them, its shadow not deep enough for her liking. But it was only Bayezid, her first-born, who was close enough to see the mark of death upon her. And smell her smell.

  They had enjoyed the jornufa but were finding what had followed more interesting. They couldn’t hear anything of what was being said but Suleyman’s gestures required little explanation.

  ‘My grandson is in love,’ murmured Gülçiçek. Beside her was a cup of sherbet with a straw. She extended a brittle arm to it. Bayezid leant over to the cup and lifted it. He sucked up some of the sherbet before passing it to her.

  ‘I must be one of the few people safe from your poison, Mother,’ he said, wiping his lips with the side of her sheet.

  Gülçiçek coughed and grimaced. The pain in her stomach was worse. She ignored the comment and closed her eyes. ‘He is in love and he is angry. Why is he angry, Bayezid?’

  Her voice was little above a whisper and held a rattle somewhere deep within it. Speaking more than a sentence was tiring. Bayezid sighed and looked around for wine. There was none. The Sultan stood. ‘He is angry because he cannot get his way. It was always the same.’

  ‘Constantinople?’

  The Sultan nodded. ‘I won’t storm it without a breach in the walls. I’m waiting for cannon to do it. From Venice.’

  Gülçiçek would have spat if she’d been able. Venice was Shatan.

  ‘And he’s angry because I listen to Mehmed more than him these days.’ Bayezid paused. ‘He’s afraid.’

  ‘And he’s right to be,’ whispered the Valide Sultan. ‘You sent your own brother to the bowstring when you ascended the throne. Why not kill a son?’

  Bayezid considered this. Was he strong enough to kill Suleyman? The truth was that he too was afraid. Suleyman had support at the court, the Grand Vizier for one. He turned. ‘He wants to kill me, Mother.’

  Gülçiçek nodded, her eyes still closed. ‘I know.’

  Gülçiçek knew most things about her son and those around him. Her tentacles were long and many, and one had been smacked away by this young Byzantine girl with whom her grandson was in love. She hated Anna for the love bestowed on her by her grandson. She hated her for daring not to reciprocate it. She hated her for usurping her in the harem and for her own powerlessness to do anything about it. Her hatred for Anna was infinite.

  But there was another Greek girl on whom Suleyman was slaking his lust, a dark girl much more to her liking. She sensed that her grandson was more afraid than Bayezid knew and that this girl was becoming more and more important to him, a refuge as much as a lover. She would prefer to see her marry Suleyman.

  But how to bring it about?

  They were both silent for a while, both listening to their own breathing, both knowing where this conversation was meant to lead. Finally Gülçiçek said, ‘I won’t do it. He is my grandson.’

  ‘It’s either him or me.’

  Gülçiçek shook her head slowly against the pillows. ‘No, there is another way. The girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The red-haired one he’s in love with. The one down there.’

  ‘What good would it do to kill her?’

  Gülçiçek took in air. Talking was hard. She signalled to Bayezid to help her sit higher on the pillows.

  ‘It would either send him mad,’ she continued, the message coming in rasps, ‘in which case you would have reason to kill him, or it would make him see sense, in which case you wouldn’t have to. She is a large part of the reason that he’s so obsessed with taking Constantinople.’

  Bayezid considered this. ‘How would you do it?’

  ‘I would do business with Shatan,’ she replied. ‘I would send someone to Venice.’ She yawned. The opiates were beginning to have their effect.

  ‘Whom would you send?’

  But she was asleep.

  *

  At the other end of the palace, in a dormitory adjacent to the Throne Room, three Varangian Guards were taking their ease.

  Matthew, Nikolas and Arcadius were Luke’s closest friends, raised with him in Monemvasia and the sons of Varangians, as he was. They’d been with him at Nicopolis and had managed to escape as he had. Now they were Varangian Guards in the service of Bayezid: tall, fair-haired adornments to the Sultan’s throne. Hostages in all but name.

  In the two years that they’d passed in Edirne, they’d seen emirs and sheikhs, beys and pashas bend the knee to find some favour from this man who won his battles. And they’d seen Princes from the Kingdoms of Christendom arrive to find out if Yildirim had really meant it when he’d said that he’d water his horses at St Peter’s in Rome.

  The three had just come in from displaying their skill with the axe to a delegation from Dulkadir. They were still dressed in their gold, scaled armour and blue chlamys cloaks and their distralia were leaning against a wall, each blade polished to a blinding sheen. They were lying on beds, too tired to speak.

  Which was how Anna found them.

  To begin with they didn’t see her because their eyes were closed. She paused in the doorway to study each of them: Matthew, as fair as Luke and almost his build; Nikolas with his pointed good looks and eyes, even when shut, arced with laughter; Arcadius bigger than all of them. She thought they looked much older than when she’d last seen them.

  ‘I’ve found your treasure,’ she said.

  Six eyes opened. ‘Anna!’

  Then they were on their feet and smiling and inviting her to sit on the remaining couch. They offered her wine, which she took. They’d not seen her during their time in Edirne.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I found it with Plethon. It’s extraordinary.’

  ‘And you can’t tell us what it is.’ This was Matthew.

  Anna smiled. ‘No, I can’t tell you. But it’s not gold. Something better. Something that might, perhaps, still save our empire. And I’ve brought your freedom.’

  ‘Our freedom?’ Matthew had come to sit beside her. ‘We’re free to leave?’

  Anna nodded. ‘Free to leave. Free to go and join Luke. He needs you.’ She paused. ‘And you must take Eskalon.’

  Eskalon. The horse that Luke had made his own. It was stabled at the palace and had been Suleyman’s gift to Anna. Matthew had cared for it, finding in those deep brown eyes some memory of his closest friend. He missed Luke with an intensity that surprised him.

  ‘Where do we go?’ he asked

  ‘First to Constantinople. Yakub is to take me in to see the Patriarch. I’m to get an annulment. I think Yakub will tell you where to go next.’

  Matthew frowned. ‘An annulment to marry Suleyman. Was this the price of our freedom, Anna?’

  Anna didn’t reply. She looked down at her hands, remembering a kiss that she hadn’t hated. Suleyman’s taste was still on her lips. She turned to Nikolas, who was sitting on the adjacent bed. ‘They will tell you that Luke is dead,’ she said. ‘Suleyman believes he was killed after committing rape. Does th
at sound like Luke?’

  Matthew had taken her arm. ‘If he’s not dead, then why must you marry Suleyman? Why get the annulment?’

  When she turned back, there were tears in her eyes. ‘Because it’s the plan,’ she said. ‘If Luke is following it, then so must we. We are not free.’

  Matthew looked hard at her. There was something new and unrecognisable in her eyes. He thought suddenly of a night of wind and rain when he’d stood beside Luke on a jetty and faced the soldiers of the Mamonas family, Damian sitting on a rock, laughing. He remembered her dragged back along the jetty while Luke sailed out into a storm. ‘How do you know that Luke is still alive? He may not have raped, but that doesn’t mean that he’s alive.’

  ‘He is,’ she said. ‘I have been to Eskalon and looked into his eyes. Luke is alive.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  MONEMVASIA, AUTUMN 1398

  It was evening and Pavlos Mamonas was standing on the battlements of the citadel high on the Goulas of Monemvasia looking out across the bay. The first darts of rain had flown in on a rising wind and he couldn’t see much beyond the vague outline of hills on the mainland. Beyond them lay vineyards, mile upon mile of red earth and vine that was now heavy with Malvasia grape. His grape. Could it be harvested in this weather?

  The truth was that he didn’t much mind. The wine was, by now, only a small part of the Mamonas fortune. It was the Mamonas Bank on the Rialto that made the greatest profits, and it was the earnings from supplying Venetian cannon and ships to the Turks that had furnished the capital to establish it. He smiled.

  But that’s not the biggest prize.

  The biggest prize of all was alum. Only two mines provided the vital fixative for the dyeing industry of Florence and the Low Countries and both were in Ottoman hands. What Pavlos Mamonas really wanted was the monopoly in alum. And the man who would give it to him was Bayezid.

  He closed his eyes against the rain and moved along the battlements, opening them again when he faced the bridge that joined the island to the mainland. Below were the wharves and jetties and a hundred ships at anchor that bobbed in the sea like apples. Here the drop from the balcony was sheer and he thought of the sea pounding the rocks below, trying to claw this stubborn rock back into its depths. He heard the screech of a cat and, somewhere beyond, a church bell sounding the hour, the noise rising and falling with the wind. He breathed in the smell of salt and decay and turned to look over the Goulas plateau. Beneath the citadel stood the new barracks of the janissaries next to their little mosque. Birds blew like paper around its minaret, white as snow against the bruised sky. The Turks had brought the Mamonas family back to their city and had stayed to guard them from its hostile citizens. He looked at the two big city cisterns next to it. How clever, he thought, for the Turks to control the city’s water supply.

  Water. Mamonas. You control both.

  He frowned. These days, Pavlos Mamonas did not much like to be in Monemvasia. The citizens hated him for bringing the Turks and he’d left Damian to run the family business there, an easy enough task since it could run itself. He’d come today to meet with his son and tell him some news. But Damian wasn’t there and the palace servants had looked at their feet when asked where he might be found. But Pavlos knew: in a tavern or brothel. And this was his heir.

  Now it was evening and he was getting impatient. He was tired and he wanted to eat. Most of all, he wanted to get this encounter over. Where was Damian?

  There was a noise from behind and he turned. Damian was leaning against the battlements, his shirt unbuttoned and his long black hair covering half his face. Pavlos could just make out the scar that ran across his cheek below an eye that was trying to focus on him. It was the scar from the accident with the horse.

  The accident that started all this.

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  Damian shrugged. He pushed himself up from the wall and began to button up his shirt. He had difficulty with the buttons. He gave up and pushed his hair from his face. ‘I thought you didn’t like this place.’

  Pavlos Mamonas’s frown deepened. The truth was that he loved this place. Monemvasia was where he’d been born, its labyrinth of streets where he’d grown up. He loved this little city on the edge of the sea: its endless rhythm of tide and trade; its smells and echoes; its many, many cats. He thought suddenly of Damian as a boy, unscarred and without limp, high on his shoulders, fistfuls of hair in his hands, watching the Mamonas ships come in.

  Before the accident.

  Six years. It was six years ago that the Varangian’s son had pushed Damian in front of the thrashing hooves of a horse. They’d told him that Luke Magoris had a gift with horses. He had, but he’d used it to save himself. Now Magoris was dead, his cowardly, raping evil expunged from the earth. At least that was something. He looked out into the gathering night and thought of what to say.

  Damian spoke again, the words sliding together. ‘Have you come to watch the harvest, Father? Are you worried that I might miss a grape?’

  Pavlos remained silent. The rain was coming in harder and he could feel its chill through the cloak. He heard Damian move, stumble, curse. Was it the leg? Then his son was beside him, looking out to where he looked. Pavlos could smell the wine on his breath.

  Damian asked: ‘Why are you here?’

  Pavlos closed his eyes. It was finally to be done. He hated it with every nerve in his being but it had to be done. Finally. Now.

  ‘I have come to a decision. You will not inherit,’ he said quietly. ‘The Mamonas bank, estates, studs … everything we own will go to your sister when I am gone.’

  Damian didn’t move. He continued to stare into the night, the wind lifting his hair. Pavlos heard him release a long, slow breath as if something deep inside was escaping. He glanced across. Was it rain or tears that ran down his son’s cheeks? He looked back at the dark.

  ‘You will be provided for. There will be some part of the business you can run. There will be no shame.’

  He heard movement beside him and saw that Damian was slowly shaking his head. ‘No shame.’ It was a whisper.

  Pavlos Mamonas straightened. He’d said it and it was right. His son was a whoring, hopeless drunk. He couldn’t run his own life, let alone others’. He’d had his chance at marriage and he’d failed in that. He’d had his chance abroad. He was beyond redemption. It was right.

  So why do I feel it isn’t?

  He knew the answer: Zoe and the deal they’d made for Chios. Was he sacrificing his son’s future for a business transaction? No. He could smell the wine, hear the laboured breaths. It was right. He realised that Damian was watching him.

  ‘Have you changed your will?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. It will be done tomorrow. You will witness it.’

  Damian had looked away and was shaking his head again.

  Pavlos opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Damian’s hand was at his throat. In his other hand was a dagger. Damian hissed: ‘No shame. Is that what you said, Father? No shame?’

  Pavlos was pressed against the battlements, his back stabbed by stone. His son was strong and not as drunk as he’d thought. ‘Damian …’ he whispered.

  ‘What do you know about shame, Father? When have you had to limp your way across the Piazza San Marco with Venetians sniggering into their sleeves? When have you had to suffer the pity of whores? When have you felt shame, Father?’

  Pavlos was being pushed towards the open crenellation, beneath which was a drop of two hundred feet. Damian’s hand was tight around his neck and he could feel the point of the dagger in his side. He looked up into the rain. Damian’s face was close to his and his wine-breath hot on his chin. He was nearing the opening, the point when there’d be nothing between him and the rocks.

  ‘Damian … listen.’

  But Damian was listening only to the ringing fury in his ears. For six years, this man whom he’d loved beyond reason had looked at him with disappointment, then contempt. For s
ix years he’d felt the growing tide of failure wash over him, drown him. Yes, slowly, inexorably drown him. Now this.

  He said: ‘You’ve not made the will, Father.’ His fingers dug into his father’s throat. ‘So if you die, there’ll be no will.’ The dagger moved upwards, towards the heart. ‘There’ll be no shame.’

  Then Pavlos felt emptiness behind his right shoulder. Air. Below were rocks and sea. Far, far below.

  ‘There will be no shame, Father.’ Damian was drawing back for a final push or stab, his eyes half curtained by hair, his teeth set.

  The wall was now only supporting half of Pavlos’s back. He could feel himself losing balance, the rain against the small of his back. He was thinking hard.

  He’ll push, not stab. He’ll not want the wound.

  Pavlos knew what he must do. And he knew he had to do it now, before it was too late. But it must be finely judged. Too much and his son would fall. He shifted his foot and kicked at where he knew his son’s lameness lay. With a howl, Damian lurched over, his hand seeking a wall where there was none. Pavlos turned to catch him before he fell but his hand caught in his cloak.

  ‘Damian!’

  His son was suspended above the crenellation, clawing the air. Throwing aside the cloak, Pavlos reached out to take his hand. But the hand he held for an instant was slick with rain. It slipped out of his and the body beyond it fell.

  Damian’s scream followed him on to the rocks below.

  *

  In Venice, Zoe stopped suddenly. She’d heard a scream. She looked around her. The street was empty. The scream had been far away. Far, far away. She frowned, then shrugged. There were screams everywhere. Venice was in carnival. Venice was always in carnival.

  Carnevale, farewell to meat. Officially, it was the last chance for scandal to run amok before Lent. But, these days, it took any excuse and tonight the city was full of masks.

  Zoe, disguised behind her own bauta, had escaped the throng watching the fireworks launched from the Rialto Bridge. She hadn’t been among Tommasi Giacomo’s party in the Mamonas barche since she was in Venice incognito. She had, however, seen the size of the jewel nestled between his wife’s breasts. She’d like to review the factor’s books when she returned in a more official capacity.