The Prince rode back down the line of targets as fast as he had before, his horse picking up speed all the time. His arrows thudded into the three eagles held by the Varangians and the fourth found its target.
Then the horse reared.
Afterwards, no one could explain how it had happened. Some had seen a shrew dart out in front of him, others the sun reflected from a shield into the horse’s eyes. What all agreed was how remarkably the Prince had controlled his horse, keeping to his saddle despite having no hand on the reins. Of course the last arrow went wide.
Luke sat on his horse and wetted his lips with his tongue. The shadows around him were getting longer by the minute.
One more pass. Five targets.
He kicked his pony and started back down the line of targets.
Arcadius first, then Nikolas, then Matthew, but his horse was going too fast; it wanted to end this game. Luke’s hand went to the reins but he was too close to Matthew to pull them. He aimed the bow and fired and knew he’d hit the target and reached for the next arrow. But he was not where he wanted to be. Nikolas was level with him before the next arrow had been fitted. But it was too late and the arrow that should have hit his eagle flew instead into Matthew’s.
Then he was at the end of the course. He’d not had time to hit the two last targets and Mohammed had hit four.
He kicked his horse towards the dais, seeing Mohammed do the same from the other end. They arrived together to find Tamerlane with Shulen by his side. She was still wearing the clothes from the hunt, Tamerlane’s dried blood on her tunic.
The riders dismounted and prostrated themselves on the ground. Mohammed Sultan lifted his head and spoke. ‘He did well, lord. The light was bad. The Varangian did well.’
Tamerlane grunted. ‘Well? He lost. Why is that well?’
‘He rode well, lord. Like a gazi.’
By now, the three Varangians had been untied and brought over to stand before the dais. Their hair was dishevelled and their tunics filthy from the targets. Arcadius was rubbing his wrists.
Tamerlane grunted again. He pointed to Luke. ‘Give him his sword.’
A man came forward with the sword. The dragon head was dull in the narrowing light and Luke took it and looked into the ruby eyes.
Tamerlane gestured towards the Varangians beside him. ‘Give one of them a target and send him away twenty paces.’
Arcadius was hauled forward. The target he thought he’d escaped was strapped again to his front and he was led away.
Tamerlane watched it all. ‘Put the sword in it,’ he said, turning to Luke. ‘From here. Put the sword in it and you can stay.’
Luke looked at the target, twenty paces away, already in shadow, his friend behind it. It was impossible and, if he missed, Arcadius would die. But this moment had been long coming and he couldn’t fail. It was his only chance and he’d have to take it. He turned to Tamerlane. ‘Lord, you know the throw is impossible. It can only succeed by the will of Allah. If I succeed, could it be because Allah has heard what I say and wishes the Sword of Islam to go west and lead the gazi tribes against Bayezid?’
He heard Mohammed Sultan draw breath beside him. He’d gone too far. They were all dead. But Tamerlane merely grunted.
‘Perhaps.’ He was growing impatient. ‘Throw the sword.’
Luke held the sword by its perfect blade, finding its point of balance on the flat of his palm. He positioned himself to throw it, legs apart, head up. He glanced down. The dragon eyes looked up at him, suddenly alive. Then Luke stared at Arcadius; judging, judging.
He threw the sword.
The sound was the right one. Not the hard sound of sword on stone or the softer one of severed flesh; it was the solid thud of blade entering straw and never had a sound been so good. He heard Arcadius whoop with relief.
Tamerlane was staring at the target. Then he nodded slowly. He turned to Luke. ‘It is Allah’s will that you stay. You will make your Varangian oath to me. You will pledge yourselves to me, all of you.’ He rose. ‘And I will consider further what is the will of Allah.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EDIRNE, WINTER 1399
It was nearly the end of the century and a thin, cold wind blew in from the east to carry it away. Few would regret its passing. It had been a fearful time of plague and war and its survivors awaited the new one with unease. Many said that it would bring not only the end of the Empire but the end of time itself.
The harem in Edirne was preparing itself for hibernation. The east wind patterned its windows with leaves blown in from the gardens, nudging aside the velvets hung to keep it out. Pot-bellied stoves were brought in to heat the rooms and furs spread across their marble floors. Brisk massage replaced caress and the palace cooks turned their attention to making soup.
The harem’s hibernation relied on the stored nutrition of story that was released nightly for sharing. Anna, having once told Suleyman that she never wanted to set foot in it again, now spent every night there. Gülçiçek’s absence was as a brick taken from a dam. The evenings were flooded with stories told by this slave sisterhood collected from every part of the Sultan’s western empire and beyond. Some were noble and educated, others could barely write their names; some as fair as Anna, others darker than Zoe. All had a past and wanted to talk about it.
Theirs was a world cocooned from events outside and the news that made it through the filter of palace servants was not always accurate. They heard that Bayezid’s cannon had arrived at last at Constantinople and that dark portents had been seen in the skies above the city. They heard that Bayezid himself had taken a small army up to Wallachia to punish the Voivode for some misdemeanour, leaving Suleyman to run the siege. The Sultan would be away for a month at least and that, to most, was a relief. Although he rarely visited the harem these days, his very presence in the palace spread unease through every room like an invisible gas.
Anna listened to it all and made her own store of fact and fiction, ready to unpack later when she reported to Angelina.
The Princess from Hungary had been ill for some weeks now. To begin with, it was thought to be a summer chill and Anna had felt guilt over the pool games she’d introduced. They’d put her to bed and shut out all draughts and fed her hot soups larded with herbs and Anna had even lent her the Alexiad. It was the book that Luke had given her in the cave, her only link to him and the most precious thing she possessed. She missed it nightly but knew that Angelina might miss it more. But the Princess only seemed to get worse.
Then Zoe came to the harem.
On an evening of fog and chill, Anna was shocked to see Zoe present at the evening storytelling. She had news she wanted them all to hear, especially Anna. It came from an Italian girl who’d been asked to help in the interrogation of four merchants from Venice. They’d been brought to Edirne by emissaries from Qara Yusuf of the Black Sheep Turcomans.
The women of the harem were gathered in the audience hall, warmed by wood stoves, and the hum of conversation had turned to silence as the story unfolded. It was a good one. Four tall Varangians, Nordic gods apparently, had arrived in Tabriz disguised as servants to a Lady Fatimah, a rich merchant’s daughter. Three of them had been captured and almost died in the arena before their leader arrived with Prince Yakub to save them. Anna hadn’t breathed during the telling, her head dizzy with what she was hearing.
Someone asked: ‘These Varangians, where had they come from?’
‘Kutahya, Prince Yakub’s capital.’
‘And the Lady Fatimah?’ asked another.
‘She was in disguise too. She was from Yakub’s tribe. No one could work out why she was there until …’ Zoe looked at Anna and saw that she had her full attention. ‘Until … well, it doesn’t matter why.’
But the harem girls were captivated. They liked this Lady Fatimah. Maria said: ‘You cannot stop it there, Zoe. Why was she there?’
‘Well,’ Zoe said carefully, again glancing at Anna, ‘it turned out that she was married to
the leader of the Varangians. They had been married in Kutahya. It was he who rescued her from Qara Yusuf’s harem.’
‘And the hero’s name?’
‘They called him Luke. He was from Monemvasia.’
Anna grasped the arm of the chair she was sitting in. Beside her, Maria asked: ‘Married?’
Zoe turned to her and smiled. ‘Yes. Married to this Lady Fatimah, the merchant’s daughter. The Venetians were very certain.’
Anna had looked away, closing her hands to stop them shaking. She rose with all the dignity she could muster and smiled with her lips but not her eyes and left the room. She went to see Angelina, finding her in her room lying against pillows with the Alexiad in her hands. Anna sat down the bed and closed her eyes.
‘You look tired,’ said Angelina, her voice a whisper. ‘You should go to bed. Would you like your book back?’
Anna looked at the book. It was no longer a thing of comfort and memory. It was just a book that she’d read too often. ‘You can keep it,’ she said. She rose and went to her room where a fire was burning. She sat down on her bed.
Luke married. Can it be true?
Of course it could be true. Hadn’t she seen Shulen in Kutahya? What possible other reason could there be for her to have been there? What other reason for her to be on so dangerous a mission?
She stayed like that for a while, then rose and went over to a desk in the corner of the room and opened a drawer. In it was a rolled parchment and next to it Suleyman’s seal. It was the annulment of her marriage to Damian Mamonas, signed by an anxious Patriarch and brought by her out of Constantinople after her meeting with Luke.
Why did you even send for me?
To say goodbye, of course. He knew that she was to be married to Suleyman and was about to complete the symmetry. He’d just wanted to say goodbye, that’s all. She closed her eyes against the pain, screwed them shut to hold out the blast of understanding. Then she opened them, picked up the scroll and read it through. There was nothing more to stop her marrying Suleyman. She looked at the seal.
Suleyman’s seal. My seal when I marry him.
*
Inside Constantinople, the citizens saw portent in every starfall.
Already, strange lights had been seen dancing across the night sky, the moon had somersaulted and an owl flown three times around the dome of the Church of Holy Wisdom. And, most poignantly, a tree in the orchard of the Church of St Saviour in Chora had been split by lightning, only to re-form itself into a crescent.
The most potent relics of the city were once again revealed and the Patriarch mounted the walls to process with his clergy, clamping his battered vestments to his knees with one hand, lifting a splinter with the other and jumping every time the cannon fired.
That was not very often. The cannon needed two hours to cool between firing and the Patriarch, who scorned secular time, found himself unprepared whenever they did so.
The citizens of the city were more often on their knees, either praying or burying their gold, while their anxious wives cut their daughters’ hair to the scalp and scoured the Koran for the Prophet’s injunction on rape. They knew that it was only a matter of time before their city would fall.
There were no stars in the sky on the night that Benedo Barbi stood at the entrance to a mineshaft next to Marchese Longo. The mineshaft was inside the city’s walls and its tunnel went deep beneath them before rising to meet the tunnel dug by the Turks.
Barbi, Longo and Dimitri had arrived from Chios a month earlier, slipping in through the Turkish galleys in submarines of the engineer’s own design. The vessels were, in fact, three Greek fire canisters, emptied and kept buoyant by pigs’ bladders, with periscopes and tubes for breathing. Launched from boats outside the Turkish blockade, the three men had worked stern paddles with their feet to propel them silently past the galleys. They were blue from cold when they’d been fished from the sea.
Now they were almost as cold for the wind was keen.
‘It’s from the east,’ said Longo. ‘It’s been blowing for weeks now. Comes straight from the steppe.’
Barbi pulled his fur cloak tighter around him and stamped his feet. He peered into the mine. ‘What are they doing in there? Can you hear anything?’
Longo leant forward and listened. ‘Nothing,’ he said. He straightened up. ‘In fact, nothing anywhere. Perhaps they’ve all frozen to death.’
It was very still. Apart from the rustle of the wind in the trees, tentative as if exploring things unknown to it on the steppe, there was nothing beyond the occasional bark of dog or call of sentry. They were on the very edge of the city among shadowed fields set aside for burial and agriculture, the one perhaps helping the other.
Longo lifted his nose. ‘Chestnuts,’ he said with certainty. ‘One of the sentries is cooking chestnuts on his brazier.’ He’d seen the braziers that very morning when he and Barbi had mounted the walls to inspect the damage done by the new cannon. The damage was, so far, slight. This was because the cannon could only shoot ten times in a day and Barbi had persuaded the Emperor to order the construction of vast leather blankets to hang over the walls to absorb their impact. But it was only a matter of time before they would have an effect.
It was three weeks earlier that the engineer had noticed the cannon were aiming their fire at the same part of the wall every time. And he’d noticed something else. It was known that the Turks were digging a mine under the city walls but no one had any idea where. Barbi had guessed that the mine was being dug to that part of the wall being weakened by the cannon. The Turks were going to dig under the wall, prop oak piles beneath the stones and then set fire to them. When the piles collapsed, the walls would come down too. Almost immediately he’d ordered the digging of the counter-mine.
Now it was almost ready. Barbi had ordered thin sheets of bronze to be placed in between the tunnel props that would vibrate to the sound of the Turks’ digging. That way they’d gradually learnt the exact path of the enemy mine and, the night before, a man had reported hearing voices. It was time to break through.
‘Here they come.’ Barbi had knelt and was holding his torch into the opening of the shaft.
A moment later a head appeared, its hair clogged with earth, and one of Longo’s men climbed out of the hole. ‘They’re about to change teams,’ he said, turning to help the next man up. ‘And we’re inches away from them.’
Three more men appeared, the last holding a small brass lamp lit by oil. He said, ‘The air’s foul down there, lord. The lamp nearly went out.’
Barbi handed him a cloak. ‘Here, wrap yourself in this.’ He turned and patted a brass siphon lying on the ground beside him. ‘There’s no danger of this going out, I assure you.’
The plan was a simple one. The entrance to the Turks’ mine was situated between the two cannon lying in their cradles, perhaps twenty paces from each. Barbi intended to wait until the Turkish digging teams changed, when the men were most tired, and then break through. He’d taken a giant bellows from the city’s blast furnace and connected it by tube to an incinerator that would produce thick smoke. He meant to blow smoke into the Turkish tunnel to clear it before sending in a party with Greek fire. They would emerge from the mine, using the flame-throwers to scatter the guards while others spiked the cannon. Then, coming back through the tunnel, they’d set fire to the Turkish props and collapse their mine.
It was a simple but dangerous plan and Marchese Longo had volunteered to lead the party that was now standing around him. He was a father now and had a wife nursing a two-year-old son called Giovanni and he knew it was reckless. But he was also a Genoese lord from one of the oldest families of the republic. He turned to his friend. ‘Are you ready?’
Barbi was helping a man to strap on his canister. It was big and bulbous and shone dull gold in the light of the torch. It looked as if the man was carrying a knight piggyback. Another was donning the second siphon. ‘I think so. Here are the flints.’ He gave Longo a tinderbox.
Marchese Longo led the way into the shaft, lighting their way with the oil lamp as they climbed down. The tunnel at the bottom was the height of a tall dwarf and they had to stoop to walk. It was cold and damp and the air was thin and gaseous. Behind him came the man with the bellows, its tube snaking after him, followed by the first of the siphons.
They made slow, shuffling progress but eventually they reached the Turks’ tunnel. Longo lifted the spluttering lamp so that its light fell on a wall of earth in front of him. He turned and the light played across the brass plates to one side. He put his finger to his lips. Voices could be heard on the other side of the wall, and the sound of scraping. He signalled for the man with the bellows to come forward.
With some difficulty, they changed places and the bellows-carrier began slowly making a hole for the snout of the bellows to fit through. Then he stopped, turned and nodded. One push and the snout would break through to the Turkish tunnel. The moment had come.
Longo waited for the signal to be passed up from the rear that the smoke was ready.
He gave the signal.
The bellows snout was pushed through and the man behind it began to pump. Almost immediately there were cries from the other side as the smoke filled the Turkish tunnel. Longo and his men put wettened cloths to their faces.
The man with the bellows had stopped pumping and was now digging through the rest of the wall-face. The shouts from the other side were getting fainter. Longo came alongside him to help. Soon the hole was big enough to crawl through and one by one the raiding party pushed themselves into the tunnel.
Longo knelt next to the man with the siphon once he was through. Then Marchese took the tinderbox from his belt, opened it and took out the flint, fire steel and tinder. He nodded to the man and they rose and began to move down the tunnel as fast as they were able. It was taller than their own and the wooden props more frequent. Through the smoke, they could hear panic.
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 24
