They stared at each other without speaking, both thinking the same thing. Only one person in the harem would have access to such poison.
Gülçiçek.
‘We need to find the doctors,’ said Anna, rising. She bent over Angelina to kiss her forehead, prising the book from her sleeping fingers. She held Angelina’s hand in hers, staring at it.
The fingers.
Something about Angelina’s fingers was wrong. She looked closely at them, at their flaked tips; then she raised them to her nose. She looked at the book.
Of course.
In the corridor were the palace doctors. Their heads were joined and they were speaking in whispers. Beside them stood the Chief Black Eunuch. Anna motioned him to join her.
‘It’s poison,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen it on her fingers. Someone coated the corners of the pages in the book that I lent her.’
The Kislar Ağasi was a giant from Mali and famous for his calm. Early in his Timbuktu upbringing, his calm had been mistaken for stupidity and he’d been sold as a slave. He’d secured his role as ruler of the Sultan’s harem through deploying that composure to best effect. Now he said nothing.
‘You know who’s done this,’ Anna said, looking up at him.
The eunuch remained silent. He was dressed in a thoub of flawless white and not one muscle in his giant, impassive face moved.
‘Angelina is near death. The priest has been. Our only chance of an antidote is in knowing the poison.’
The eunuch wasn’t looking at her. His half-closed eyes were fixed on something beyond and above her.
‘In the not very distant future,’ Anna continued, her voice even, ‘I shall be married to the next sultan and you will either be free and rich or have died in as agonising a way as someone crueller than I will have devised.’ She paused. One tiny bead of sweat had appeared on the man’s temple. She rose on tiptoe to it and whispered: ‘I want to know the poison, Kislar Ağasi.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EDIRNE, SPRING 1400
Three days later, Bayezid’s mother was dead. No one had known the Valide Sultan’s age, only that she was infinitely old and infinitely powerful. Some said that she’d exercised her power well, others that she’d been a scheming witch. Anna felt that her only good act had been the one she’d performed on her deathbed. As to how she’d been persuaded of it, Anna preferred not to know.
The man had set off for Venice as soon as they knew where the poison had come from. Now he’d returned with bad news. The Kislar Ağasi was passing it on to Anna and Maria. ‘The Jew had no antidote.’
‘Did he even say what poison it was?’ asked Maria.
The giant shook his head. ‘He said that it was poison from many different snakes. Snakes from the island of Chios.’
Anna put her hand on his arm. ‘Chios is close. We can send for someone.’
The eunuch frowned. ‘I fear not, lady. Chios is under attack.’
*
On Chios, the meltemi was over. Despite the Monseigneur’s many masses, the wind had blown itself out. Or almost.
From Marchese Longo’s vantage point on the castle walls, he could see smoke from the burning fields drifting north into the foothills of Mount Aipos and, closer, the dust of pounded masonry following it. The Turkish galleys had hove to beneath the walls and were firing their cannon. The guns were small and the firing infrequent but dust had obliterated the sun. The sound was deafening.
‘There they are.’ Dimitri was pointing south across the plain towards the Kambos where the fields had been set alight. Emerging from the smokescreen were the janissary ortas and they were advancing in good order. They had been dropped further up the coast an hour before.
First came groups of infantry behind large wicker screens, then archers who stopped behind them to loose volley after volley of arrows. Next came the water-carriers who would also tend to the wounded. It was an impressive and entirely silent manoeuvre and Longo found himself nodding in approval.
‘No wonder they win,’ he murmured, turning to Benedo Barbi, who was on his other side. ‘Look at them.’
‘Look at their clothes,’ said Lara, who’d arrived later. She and the monks of the Nea Moni monastery had set up a hospital inside the castle. The meltemi had at least given them time to prepare.
The janissaries were certainly fine. Each wore a tall white börk, and beneath they wore mail hauberks over long tunics and boots of red leather. Some carried banners with crescents and the hand of Fatima on them. In front of them, soldiers of the campagna were streaming back through the suburbs of the town, some carrying wounded. The town’s population had taken shelter inside the castle.
‘I’d better go back to the monks. I wish the Princess was here.’
Longo wished it too, and not just for her healing. He missed every part of his wife.
Barbi said: ‘If only we had some cannon. We’d make better use of them than these clowns.’
The Turks’ first rounds had been aimed at the row of windmills on the harbour front. Every one had missed and one of the cannon had exploded, setting fire to the sail above. Now they had chosen the easier target of the walls.
‘They are keeping our heads down in the castle while they burn down the town around us,’ said Dimitri. ‘We don’t have long.’
Longo nodded. With half of the garrison in Italy, they were outnumbered twenty to one. They had no cannon beyond the little ribaudekin given by the Duke of Milan and all the Greek fire had been used up in Constantinople. It would be over quickly.
Longo looked up to the sky. His fingers eased the top of his cuirass, which was digging into his neck. The sun was hidden by the smoke and the air smelt of burning. From the town he could hear the shouts of panicked men and animals. Somewhere a donkey was braying without cease.
He thought of Giovanni. Would he become part of the Devshirme? Would he be sent away to become a janissary as they’d meant to do to Luke? He’d heard that Greek families on the mainland were now offering their children for the levy with bribes.
Not Giovanni. Not while I am alive to prevent it.
His son was in the new port of Limenas. He was in the care of a fisherman and his wife who’d been given money to take him to Mistra where he would be reunited with his mother. He’d agreed the plan with Fiorenza before she’d left. They would leave as soon as the messenger told them that Chora had fallen.
Longo looked back at the janissaries. They were almost at the castle walls now and scaling ladders were being brought forward. The huge gates of the castle had shut behind the last of the fleeing men. Everything in the town was being set alight and plumes of black, acrid smoke rose from the houses.
It won’t be long now.
A horn sounded. It did not come from the town but from the ships. Longo walked to the walls overlooking the harbour. The Turkish cannon had fallen silent and the flagship had hoisted a new pennant. The galleys were turning, their oars digging deep to bring them around.
The engineer arrived beside him. ‘What are they doing?’
Longo shrugged. ‘Perhaps they don’t want to hit their own men now that they’re at our walls.’
Barbi shook his head. ‘Their aim is certainly wanting, but you’d think that this would be the time to increase their firing. Look.’ He was pointing back down the coastline to the place where the Turks had first landed. The boats that had brought them from the ships were working their way along the shoreline towards the town.
Dimitri had joined them. ‘Do they mean to come off and attack from some other direction, do you think?’
The others remained silent. It seemed inexplicable. Longo led them back across to the walls above the town. The Genoese archers on the ramparts were shouting into the smoke below.
‘They’re calling them cowards,’ said Barbi as they approached. ‘Is that wise?’
They came up to the archers and saw what they saw. Through the smoke billowing up from the houses were janissaries in retreat. Maintaining their impeccable discip
line, the men were marching back through the streets of Chora in the direction of the boats that were coming to get them.
Longo heard footsteps behind him. Members of the signore were approaching, Gabriele Adorno at their head, Zacco Banca beside him.
‘What is this, Longo? Do they come at us another way now?’ Adorno’s white beard brushed his black armour as he spoke. ‘Where are they going?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ replied Longo. He glanced up at the sun, fierce now without the dust. He put his hand to his brow and looked out to sea. ‘There’s a boat coming towards us.’
A pinnace had detached itself from the flagship. It was more a barche with a tassled awning at the stern. It had an ornate ribaudekin set into its prow and a turbaned man stood astride the muzzle. The sea was still choppy and its scalloped waves rocked the boat from side to side and Longo wondered whether the man would make it to the shore.
He did. Ten minutes later the men of the campagna and Benedo Barbi were assembled at the top of the harbour steps watching the man straighten his turban as he stepped from the boat. On dry land, he was impressive. Everything about him was large, from his turban to the curl of his moustache; from his sash to the sword it held to his waist. In one hand was an enamelled mace, in the other a scroll.
He reached the top of the steps and bowed. ‘I am the Yeniçeri Ağasi. I command the janissaries. Which of you is the Lord Longo?’ The man spoke Greek as if he was native to the tongue.
Marchese Longo exchanged glances with Gabriele Adorno. ‘I am Longo.’
‘I have a message from the Prince Suleyman,’ said the Aga, lifting the scroll. ‘There is to be a truce for a week. We need someone with the skill to heal snake poison, snake poison from this island. Do you know of such?’
Zacco Banco stepped forward. He was shaking his head. ‘Are we to understand that you intend delaying your attack so that we can help you?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘What will you do at the end of the week?’
The janissary turned to him. ‘We will return the person and renew the attack.’
Banco snorted. ‘Why would we help our enemy?’ he asked. ‘It is unnatural.’
The Aga turned back to Longo and held out the scroll. ‘It is to be read by you, Lord Longo. It has the seal of my master and has not been opened.’
Longo took the scroll, broke the seal and opened the parchment. He read the contents twice, then rolled it up and tucked it into his belt. He turned to Benedo Barbi. ‘Go and find Dimitri. And tell him to bring Lara.’
*
Two days later, Bayezid was in the throne room at Edirne, with his son Mehmed, and was in a dark mood. One of his fillings had fallen out. The doctors had prescribed the same opiates given to Angelina but they’d only delivered nightmares. To make it worse, he’d just had to endure a dirge from the janissary mehter band for two hours and the beat of the davul was still thumping in his temples.
‘Thank Allah we’re not widows,’ he said to his second son, his eyes closed and a finger to each temple. ‘The Koran dictates four months and ten days for them. We’ll only have to mourn her for three days.’
Bayezid had returned from Wallachia immediately on hearing of the death of his mother. He’d left his army there to persuade the Voivode Mircea not to repeat the mistake of Nicopolis. Now he was pacing up and down, speaking through lips that hardly moved, his hand nursing his jaw. In middle age, the Sultan had lost all the dash of his youth. He was bloated, puffy of face, and his breath was a mix of new wine and old food. Yildirim was long dead.
Mehmed was wearing a simple tunic without adornment or jewellery of any kind, the Koran being specific on the matter of what to wear in mourning. At sixteen, he was well made and had the darkness of his mother Devlet Hatun, wife to Bayezid and sister to Yakub Bey. He was a gazi to his fingertips. ‘Are my brothers here yet?’ he asked.
Bayezid shook his head, fingers still attached. ‘Musa is here somewhere with that Bedreddin creature, the one who talks in riddles. Suleyman? He’s here somewhere but I suspect avoiding me.’ He came over to Mehmed, sat and looked at his son. ‘What was she like?’
Bayezid was speaking of Mehmed’s future bride, Emine, daughter to Nasireddin Bey who ruled the beylik of Dulkadir, from where he’d come.
‘She’s twelve, Father. We didn’t talk.’
Bayezid opened his eyes, laughed, then winced. ‘You are fortunate.’
They were sitting on a wide divan covered by thick carpet. Mehmed ran his palm over its surface. ‘There was news of Tamerlane,’ he said quietly. ‘I got it from the Portuguese ambassador. He was visiting Nasireddin Bey on his way back from Samarcand where he’d seen the Chinese envoys treated with contempt at Temur’s court. He believes Temur will invade China.’
Bayezid nodded. More pain. ‘We know that he hasn’t left Samarcand yet.’ He paused, putting his hand on his son’s. ‘You think we should go east?’
Mehmed nodded. ‘As do you, really. Why else am I marrying the Dulkadir Princess?’
Mehmed led the court faction that wanted to strengthen the eastern borders of the Empire. Dulkadir was on the frontier with Qara Yusuf’s Black Sheep Ilkhanate, was still independent and a more reliable ally than the Karamanids.
In fact, Bayezid had thought that if Tamerlane was on his way to certain defeat in China, he might look at alternatives for his son. But he was still smarting from the snub delivered from Cyprus: Mary of Lusignan was to be wed elsewhere. After that, he’d resolved to avoid further humiliation in the west. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The marriage is important.’
They heard the sound of steps in the hall beyond the throne room. They looked up to see the curtain part and Suleyman enter. He was dressed in armour spattered with dust, suggesting a hard ride from the siege. He looked at his father and brother in turn, then at their joined hands. Bayezid rose. He stared at his heir but said nothing.
Suleyman broke the silence. ‘It was to get the cannon, Father. Venice would not have provided them otherwise.’
Bayezid walked slowly over to a table on which stood a cup and a bowl of sugar. He drained one and set his eye on the other. His tongue sought out the hole in his tooth. ‘You disobeyed me.’
Suleyman shook his head. ‘Father, what is more important, Constantinople or Chios?’
‘That’s not the point.’ Bayezid was shouting now. ‘You disobeyed me. I told you not to touch Chios and you invaded it.’
‘For the cannon …’
‘Which you’ve already managed to see destroyed.’ Bayezid looked at his eldest son with contempt. ‘And there’s worse, isn’t there? Your red-haired concubine used your seal without you knowing. She has humiliated you.’
This was the awful truth that Suleyman had heard on his arrival. Anna had used his seal to bring Lara from Chios. She’d committed something close to treason. ‘Father …’
‘This is the girl you were proposing to marry,’ Bayezid continued, walking over to a window and looking out. ‘Well, you must sweep from your mind any notion of that now. She must be punished. How will you punish her for what she has done to you?’
Suleyman thought quickly. Was his father finding reason to kill Anna? He said: ‘She is the daughter of the Protostrator of Mistra. If we kill her, she will be another martyr to their cause. Another relic. If we banish her, it will be what she wants. I will imprison her.’
Bayezid considered this. Gülçiçek had wanted Anna dead but he saw no merit in creating martyrs. He nodded. ‘Temur will winter in the Qarabagh where he always does. You will take half the army and march east to keep watch on him.’
Suleyman recoiled. ‘But, Father, you have tasked me to take Constantinople.’
‘And you have failed.’ Bayezid glanced behind him. ‘We will see if your brother Mehmed fares better.’
Suleyman closed his eyes. A memory: he was in a tent and speaking to Zoe.
If we go east, it will be because Constantinople hasn’t fallen. Mehmed will inherit this empire and I will go to the bowstring.
&nb
sp; *
Much later, Anna went to sit alone in the place where she knew Suleyman would find her. It was the place where she’d watched the jornufa and heard of Luke’s execution. It was the place where Suleyman had kissed her. It was a place of memories, sweet and less so.
The evening was heavy with the scent of flowers newly arrived to the world, breathing deep after the daily exertion of growth. The air was as still as death but Anna felt alive, giddy with the success of her plan. Lara had been brought from Chios, bringing with her the pharmacy she’d created with Fiorenza. Within it had been found the antidotes for Angelina’s poison, the fine balance of kill and cure that would fight the toxin on equal terms. The effect had been immediately encouraging. Angelina would live.
Now she had to face Suleyman, the man she’d betrayed completely. She saw a shadow approach amongst the geometry of lawn and hedge and knew that it was he.
Then he was there, mounting the steps of the chiosk as if each was a mountain. He fell on to a bench. Anna looked at him and was shocked. His face had lost its structure, the fine cheekbones collapsed, the chin sunk deep into his chest as if attached by the thin chain of his beard. He looked angry and broken.
She felt a surge of pity. She came and sat beside him. The cicadas chattered of the cycle of day and night and the space in between that belonged to them, unchallenged in their chorus since the caged birds had been set free.
‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could think of to say.
There was no movement beside her. The man was either deep in thought or too angry to speak. She hoped for the latter: a sentence of sorts. She wondered, without urgency, if her life was now forfeit.
‘Am I to die?’
Suleyman stirred. He lifted his chin and exhaled through pursed lips. He rubbed his eyelids between thumb and forefinger, bringing them together at the bridge of his nose. He spoke, his eyes closed. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘To save a life.’
The Towers of Samarcand (The Mistra Chronicles) Page 27
