The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles)

by James Heneage

  As the Mamonas heir.

  She wondered, fleetingly, how her twin brother would receive the news.

  She was making her way through back streets towards the Jewish Quarter and there was little traffic abroad, the Jews finding themselves, more often than not, the target of Christian revelry at Carnival time. She passed a couple engaged in masked copulation in an alcove, the woman’s skirts lifted and her hands clutching Moors’ heads on the doors against which her bottom slapped. Otherwise she saw nothing but beasts. Carrying her torch high, she saw animals emerge suddenly from the dark. Lions, gorgons, gryphons and hippogryphs came at her from walls and doorways. All around her was the drip, drip, drip of water, the melancholy music of this city of 130 islands and that many churches, this place of secrets, whispers and shadows.

  A face loomed out on her right, an old woman with a cup, her grin uneven and dripping water, her eyes sightless.

  Gülçiçek.

  Zoe would not forget that meeting as long as she lived. No ocean of potions could save the terrible ravages of that face, no mountain of mastic could sweeten the breath of the awful creature that had sat propped up in her bed and talked of terrible things.

  Zoe had sat across from her, forcing herself to study the abnormal as if it were normal, forcing herself not to run, retching, from the room. The Valide Sultan had told her what she wanted; what they both wanted: Anna dead. She’d told her of her fondness for her grandson Suleyman and of her determination that he succeed his father to the throne. She’d told her of her understanding that he might want a Greek wife. After all, she herself was Greek.

  But not Anna.

  She’d said it was her wish that someone more suitable should marry Suleyman and bear his Greek heirs. Someone who would have her confidence … and that of Bayezid.

  Zoe had felt giddy as she considered what she was hearing. She could have everything. The hand of the greatest ruler on earth as well as the Mamonas fortune. And it would happen. It would happen because Anna would die slowly, giving her time still to bring back Luke to witness it. And, with Luke, she’d get the treasure too. She hadn’t been deceived any more than Anna by the news of his death and there was someone she knew in Venice who would bring him back for her: di Vetriano’s younger brother. She’d already made enquiries and knew that there was enough hatred there to suit her purpose.

  But the poisoning would have to be done so carefully, the perfect poison found. That’s why she was in Venice.

  For many years, Bayezid’s mother had tried to forestall the process of ageing by application of the teriaca compound, a mix of powdered viper, crushed stag’s testicles, unicorn horn and forty other ingredients that was made only in Venice. The teriacanto she was visiting was not only the best but also one that made poison as well. Behind a panel in his pharmacy lay his sala dei veleni, the room where he put the powdered viper to other uses beyond teriaca. It was here that he drowned a hundred living scorpions in a vat of olive oil to make his olio di scorpioni, where he milked the fangs of serpents to make poison. He was a master of his art and the rulers of the western world, both temporal and spiritual, beat a path to his door. Usually by proxy.

  Now Zoe’s torch shone upon a window of leaded glass through which light could be seen. She knew she was in the right place because the air smelt of sulphur and the door had a viper’s head to knock by. She pulled her hood around her mask and lifted her torch to the viper. But before she could knock, the door opened.

  The Jew was bent so low that she didn’t see his face as she entered. When he rose again, she nearly cried out for there was hardly a line on that skin. Closing the door, the man led her through the pharmacy and into his sala dei veleni, where a fire burned in the grate and the shelves on the walls were lined with glass and ceramic jars, each labelled. Beneath the shelves were benches and in front of them a strange confusion of vessels and tubes and receptacles in which coloured liquids were in motion. On a table sat a mortar, pestle and large set of scales, its pillar shaped as a serpent. Beside the scales was a small bottle, unlabelled, which contained a clear liquid, and beside it was a single sheet of parchment. Beneath the table were latticed containers full of snakes that made no noise but glistened as they moved. There was no light in the room except that bestowed by fire.

  ‘Sit, please,’ said the Jew, indicating a chair before the fire. ‘Forgive the darkness. I am engaged in the sublimation process by which coarse elements become noble. Light disturbs it.’

  The man spoke in a whisper and Zoe felt it unlikely that his voice was ever raised above it. Was it the result of a life spent with snakes? She took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling. Low beams, blackened by fire, bore down on the room. She very much wanted to be outside again. She looked at him. ‘You received the message?’

  ‘That your patron wanted something … unusual? Yes, madonna. It was passed to me.’

  Zoe waited while the man sat down opposite her. Lit by the fire, his unlined face was almost a child’s. ‘She will pay well.’

  The man smiled, a horrid motion. It occurred to Zoe that he was already half-snake.

  ‘It is not the money, madonna,’ he whispered. ‘What I do is an art that has taken eighty years to perfect.’

  Eighty? Zoe looked at the unlined face and felt sick. She held her hands tight to her lap.

  ‘But the commission is not without its fascination,’ he continued. ‘To create something that works so slowly, so implacably, that it is untraceable? Now that is a challenge.’

  ‘Can it be done?’

  The man smiled again and raised his head. Zoe saw with horror that his lips were wet. ‘Everything can be done, madonna,’ he said. ‘I have something prepared. It has the viper for its base but I’ve added the juice of many other reptiles, most from an island in the Greek seas. The compound has an ingredient that releases the poison very slowly. It is flavourless and without smell. And it dries in an instant.’

  ‘Dries?’

  The Jew rose from his chair and went over to the table. He picked up the little bottle, removed the stopper and poured a small part of its contents on to the parchment. He brought the parchment over to Zoe.

  ‘Invisible.’

  He showed it to Zoe, then lifted it to his nose, his nostrils dilating. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Odourless, and …’ A long tongue darted from his moistened lips. ‘… tasteless.’

  Zoe recoiled.

  The Jew smiled. ‘It is as I said: it works slowly. The amount I have ingested will do me no harm. But over weeks, every day …’ He put the bottle and parchment down on the table and sat again. ‘Does the victim read?’

  Zoe was startled. The question seemed irrelevant.

  The Jew continued: ‘Books. Does she read books?’ He paused. ‘I assumed her to be educated.’

  Zoe nodded. ‘Yes, she reads. Whatever she can.’

  ‘And a favourite book?’

  Zoe considered this. Of course. There was the book she’d given to her: the book about the Emperor Alexios. ‘Yes. There is a book.’

  ‘Good. Then you will coat the top corner of each page with this liquid. She will lick her fingers to turn the pages.’

  Zoe looked at the tiny bottle. It looked like water and yet it would kill. Slowly, steadily it would kill. Anna would read, sicken, take to her bed and read again.

  It was perfect.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ANATOLIA, AUTUMN 1398

  Anna set off for Constantinople a week after agreeing with Suleyman to go in and get the annulment, riding through the Ottoman lines with Yakub and a gazi guard. Yakub had come to the siege from Kutahya to discuss with Bayezid and his sons how best to secure the eastern borders against Tamerlane. He’d offered to take Anna into the city and, while there, to learn what he could about any Karamanid alliance with Byzantium.

  The Turks had been busy since their return from Nicopolis and two siege lines ran from the hill of Kosmidion down to the Propontis. New trenches had been dug, wicker palisade
s erected and a mineshaft built for a tunnel that was inexorably worming its way to the city walls. They saw cradles prepared for the cannon, swing doors to their front and buffers behind for the recoil. Balls of iron were stacked next to the cradles and the ground around cleared against fire. As they rode, Yakub explained why it had been necessary to pretend that Luke had died.

  ‘It would have broken the Karamanid alliance. And if Suleyman thinks him dead, no one will be looking for him.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘Zoe won’t have believed it,’ she said. ‘She knows Luke better than that.’

  They rode under the Golden Gate at sundown, its towers throwing long shadows to the east. This had once been the meeting place of nations and the gate through which trumpet-borne armies had marched to do the Emperor’s bidding. Now, grass grew between broken stones and its giant doors, scorched by fire, opened on to a landscape of fields.

  Anna was shocked. ‘Where are all the people?’ she asked, shielding her eyes.

  Yakub shrugged. He hadn’t been inside the city before. ‘They say that Constantinople is a shadow of what it was,’ he said. ‘Those who remain live in the centre. But at least they can feed themselves.’

  They rode on through field upon furrowed field, the occasional church tower a reminder of this city’s stubborn religion. Anna saw it all and thought of Mistra where the streets jostled with the traffic of human interchange. She thought of the noise that assaulted the Laskaris house from dawn to dusk: the sound of argument and laughter and trade and cats that got in the way. Here there was silence broken only by the call of birds.

  They arrived at the inner wall where Yakub’s gazis were obliged to wait until Anna had finished her business with the Patriarch. Yakub’s loyalties were known to Manuel, Plethon and a few others in the Byzantine court. But while in Constantinople, his men would be treated as the enemy.

  From there, Anna and Yakub were taken straight to the Blachernae Palace, a city in miniature of halls and towers that rose in tiered landcape to look out over the calm waters of the Golden Horn. There were gardens between, some of which held orchards, others turned over to the plough. They walked down marbled corridors until they arrived at the throne room.

  Inside were the Emperor Manuel, Empress Helena Dragaš and Plethon, seated around a table with a map pinned down by goblets of wine. Two gigantic jewels rested on its surface.

  ‘Anna!’ Plethon rose and came forward to take her in his arms, a kiss for each cheek. Manuel did the same while the Empress rose to greet Yakub, then returned to the map. She was a woman of compact middle age whose beauty had settled with ease upon the changes wrought by time. She had known Anna from birth.

  Now she turned from the map to Anna and said: ‘The jewels are placed on Samarcand and Constantinople. Which do you think is false?’

  Anna smiled. ‘The one on Samarcand, highness.’

  The Empress nodded. ‘Of course. The city is new and of no substance, like the jewel. The real one is in pawn at Venice.’

  ‘Where we should place a turd,’ said Plethon.

  ‘Plethon!’ The Emperor was half smiling as he turned back to Anna. ‘We were discussing Tamerlane’s next move, which seems certain to be China. Oh, and Plethon’s plan for Mistra: a kingdom built on Spartan lines with elders at the top of Mount Taygetos. Ridiculous.’

  ‘He would have us all wearing togas,’ said Helena to Anna. ‘Did you know that he doesn’t believe in God?’

  Anna tried to look shocked. The Emperor spoke again. ‘Which I suppose makes his plan for unifying the two Churches easier to attempt. He has no conscience.’ He turned to the philosopher. ‘But the people of Constantinople do.’ He moved to a chair and sat. ‘Anyway, we’re not here to discuss that. Yakub, what is the plan?’

  Yakub explained that Anna had four days’ grace to get her annulment. It had been put about that the Patriarch was busy in retreat and she’d need the time. Then he told Plethon of Luke’s demand.

  ‘Anna ride to Kutahya?’ Plethon spread his hands, his voice enormous. ‘But she’ll need wings to be back in four days.’

  Anna, still dizzy at the news, said: ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘You leave disguised as one of my gazis. You get through the Turkish lines. Then you ride to Kutahya with the Varangians. They’ve been told where to meet you.’ Yakub turned to the Emperor. ‘Did you know the Turks are tunnelling, highness?’

  Manuel nodded. ‘We need a good engineer.’

  ‘Which Luke says he can provide,’ said Yakub. ‘One who’ll bring you Greek fire too. He’s called Benedo Barbi and he lives on Chios.’

  Plethon was humming softly, pretending to look at the map. Then he turned to Anna, taking something from the folds of his toga.

  ‘I want you to give this to him,’ he said.

  *

  Anna was far ahead of the Varangians, but then she was riding Eskalon. It was over twenty hours since she’d left Constantinople, dressed and bearded as a gazi, to meet the three of them at the agreed place. Since then, they’d stopped twice to change horses. Or the Varangians had.

  At first, they’d sped towards Bursa through forests thick with pine and chestnut whose smell flavoured the air. At night, tree-eyes stared out from either side and wolves’ howling lifted the horses’ ears. They travelled a wide stone road that had seen the armies of Xerxes, Alexander, Pompey and a hundred others tramp its surface. It was worn and smooth with age and had milestones at its edge.

  As Bursa approached, the country opened and a watery sun shone down on fields shorn like sheep, stubble steaming. It was a rich land, well tended by the sipahi and akritoi farmers who lived side by side: Turkish and Greek frontiersmen who preferred to forget old allegiances to gather in the harvest.

  Matthew said aloud what they’d all been thinking. He was riding by Anna’s side. ‘Will Tamerlane be any better?’

  The two of them had been talking, snatching conversation above the pounding of the hooves. Matthew had told her of what they’d seen at Edirne, of the power struggle that gripped the palace: Suleyman wanting to go west, his brother Mehmed wanting to turn east before it was too late. He’d told her of Bayezid and the toothache that had once governed the Sultan’s mood but had disappeared with Dimitri’s mastic. He told her how they’d missed Luke. Arcadius had fallen ill, first with a cold and then with fever. Both Matthew and Nikolas had been worried for their friend until the news of joining Luke had seemed to cure him. Finally they’d talked of Tamerlane.

  Now Anna was riding out of the hills north of Kutahya towards Luke. She’d be there within the hour. It was very dark and the world was full of sound and smell: the panting of exhausted horses, the smell of night dew and horse sweat. She was far ahead of the Varangians, which was as well: she was too nervous to speak. She thought of a recent kiss from a man she was obliged to marry soon. She thought of another in a cave in Monemvasia that had led to other, wonderful things.

  What would he say to her? Had he summoned her to tell her that he’d changed his mind, that he’d come back with her? But according to Yakub, he was just changing the plan and seeing her was part of it. She reached down to check that the box was still safe in the pouch around her waist.

  As she approached the city gates, she slowed to let the Varangians ride beside her. There were men on horses with torches, little pools of light lighting their faces. Eskalon neighed and tossed his head. He was there.

  Luke.

  He was seated on a horse that looked too small for him so that his legs hung well below its belly. His hair was longer than she’d remembered it and his face more gaunt. He was dressed in gazi skins and had his dragon sword tucked into a wide belt. He held his torch high.

  The Varangians slowed their horses as they saw him too, leaving Anna to go on alone. Luke passed his torch to another and trotted forward. When their horses were side by side, Luke looked up at Anna, putting out his hand to touch her face. His fingers met her cheek.

  He said: ‘They told me you’d be bearded.’<
br />
  ‘I shaved for you.’

  There was a snort and Anna’s horse raised its head with a suddenness that made the other start. Luke leant forward to pat the big head that was turned to him.

  ‘Eskalon!’ Luke stared into eyes that were oracles.

  ‘I saw you in them,’ Anna murmured, rubbing her nose. She’d taken the hand that wasn’t stroking Eskalon’s neck. ‘You were there when they told me you were dead. Is it only me that sees things in them?’

  Luke smiled. ‘I see different people. Sometimes Plethon.’

  ‘Whom you seem to be defying. Leave the horse and kiss me.’

  And he did. The kiss went on for a long time until interrupted by a cough. Matthew had come forward on foot, leading his horse by the rein. He said: ‘We only have two hours.’

  Luke leapt down from the saddle. ‘Matthew!’ He threw his arms around his friend and hugged him hard. He whispered into his hair: ‘I can’t do it without you. You’ll come with me?’

  Matthew nodded. ‘We all will. It’s why we’re here.’

  Then there were others in the embrace. Arcadius and Nikolas had dismounted and come to join them and they were all boys again, four heads together, arms intertwined, the world within warmer than the world without. Anna watched them and heard the laughter and felt the deep, deep friendship that might just make a difference on the journey east. She leant forward to pat Eskalon. She whispered: ‘Look after him.’

  When the friends had separated and Luke had taken Eskalon’s rein in one hand and her hand in the other, the five of them went into the city, passing the tents of those who’d come too late to be let in and the hovels of those who would never be let in. They walked up through sleeping streets, their tread loud on the cobbles. A few sleepy eyes watched them pass, curious to see such tall, fair men in their city. Some of the oldest remembered when they’d seen them before, when the double-headed eagle of Byzantium had flown from Kutahya’s walls, when the mosques had been churches and hadn’t had towers from whose tops men sang.