Porphyry and Ash

by Peter Sandham

  It was grim work, even if God had blessed them with a cold, clear day for it. The limestone glistened bone white in the sunshine, and running through the stone, bands of blood red brickwork seeped across a thousand-pace double stretch of walls and watchtowers.

  Stood above the St Romanus Gate, John Grant felt the cold prickle of premonition as the dust cloud of the coming Turks kicked up like a sandstorm. ‘That’s a fair barrel of bastards for a diplomatic visit,’ he said with a glance to Maruffo.

  The Genoese podesta, resplendent in satin doublet, spat on the floor of the otherwise deserted tower roof. ‘They’re like lice,’ he said. ‘Always found in numbers and no matter how many you kill, more return.’

  The dust cloud was moving at an angle to their position, heading for the Adrianople Gate, some twenty towers north along the wall from where they stood. The imperial delegation would be waiting for them there; Sphrantzes, Karystinos, Notaras.

  ‘This is no ordinary delegation, though,’ Maruffo added.

  ‘So you said. The grand vizier himself, Halil Candarli. Perhaps the Turks really are serious about resolving matters with a blether instead of a battle for a change.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Maruffo. ‘The terms Candarli brings will be deliberately unacceptable to the emperor.’

  Grant’s brow furrowed. ‘Then why come at all? Why not pin the demands to a donkey’s tail?’

  There was a twinkle in Maruffo’s eye. ‘Because the grand vizier is not really here to see the emperor. Shall I tell you whom the real audience will be with?’

  ‘I think you better had,’ said Grant.

  ‘Loukas Notaras, the megas doux,’ Maruffo said and then gleefully added, ‘I believe you know his daughter.’

  Grant had not mentioned his run-in with Anna Notaras at the church of Hagia Euphemia. He felt a sudden umbrage at realising Maruffo had spied on him somehow. ‘I wouldn’t say “know,”, exactly,’ he said tersely. ‘I only met her the other morning at church.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Maruffo. ‘What about the market and the tavern the other night?’

  Grant’s face reddened with indignation. ‘Have you had me followed every bloody step these past days?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maruffo softly. ‘For your own good, I might say.’

  ‘You might say! Well, not to sound ungrateful, but I’m a big lad, not a wee bairn, and I can handle my own self fine enough.’

  He turned to storm off, but Maruffo, wise to the man’s temper, was ready and caught him by the arm. ‘That’s just it, John. You are a wee bairn in such matters. When it comes to deceit, you’re as pink as a newborn compared to these wily Greeks. Think about it, three times already your path has crossed that girl’s. Once is fate, twice is coincidence but three times, well...’

  The blue eyes of the Scotsman were full of anger. That idea was intolerable to him. ‘It seems you think very little of me indeed!’ Grant said, shaking his arm loose of the podesta’s grip. ‘Not only am I a gullible fool in need of a chaperone, but you also regard me unworthy of a woman’s attention unless under instruction.’ He pulled his arm away. ‘The Byzantine air has made you paranoid, Baldo.’

  ‘If you knew what I knew, you might see things differently,’ said Maruffo. ‘And if you stopped storming off like a child and listened to me for a moment, I would tell you what I know.’

  Maddeningly, Grant suspected his old mentor was talking sense. He sighed out a breath of deep frustration, folded his arms and took a step back from the tower ladder. ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  ‘As I was saying,’ Maruffo said with a nod towards the dust cloud. ‘The grand vizier’s embassy is a sham. Peace terms will be offered that Constantine will never consent to.’

  ‘Because Candarli is speaking to the megas doux,’ said Grant.

  Maruffo nodded. ‘The Palaiologoi have the imperial crown, but it is Notaras who has the wealth, the Church’s blessing and the popular support,’ he said. ‘Loukas Notaras has been corresponding with Candarli for many months, negotiating the city’s surrender to the Turks. For this crime they will make him bey of a vassal Constantinople. Except…’ Maruffo grinned and slapped a hand against Grant’s chest.

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Things began to go wrong for poor Loukas the day you appeared.’

  ‘Me?’ said Grant incredulously.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maruffo. ‘Look at the quality of men I had supplied the emperor before you arrived. Fieschi’s a wreck, Boccanegra’s a boy and Sambucuccio’s a lunatic. It’s plain for all to see that you’re an altogether different prospect. Then, on the same day I brought you to court, I announced Giustiniani’s approach with seven hundred men-at-arms. That changed matters considerably. Whatever Notaras might be able to muster, blessed by the priests or no, it wouldn’t be enough to topple Constantine if he can call upon so many professional knights. Now for the coup to proceed, Genoa must be bought off. My guess is the megas doux thinks you are Giustiniani’s vanguard. He is sounding the depth of Genoa’s loyalty to the emperor, and the girl is his plumb line.’

  ‘And how did you come to know all of this treason?’ said Grant.

  Baldo Maruffo put his arm around Grant’s shoulder. ‘Like you, I speak to a member of his household, the family seneschal, a misshapen wretch named Baltus with a gift for being as unobtrusive as the furniture and a memory sharp as an arrowhead. His only other quality of note is a surfeit of phlegm.’

  ‘You pawkie devil, Baldo,’ Grant said with admiration.

  ‘As any doctor will tell you,’ Maruffo continued, ‘the best treatment for such an imbalance of the humors is the steam bath, to warm the blood and draw out excess water. Once a week, he takes the waters at the loutros of Arcadius – a luxury he could never afford without his benevolent friend Maruffo paying the admission. Most weeks I find myself beside old Baltus, whereupon I receive chapter and verse on every movement made or word spoken in that house.’

  Grant glanced up the line of towers to where the pall of dust had reached the Adrianople Gate. ‘We’d best head for Blachernae if we want to join the audience,’ he said.

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Maruffo. ‘Their imperial feasts are still worth experiencing. I’m for Pera. I already know how that audience will play out.’

  ***

  Beneath a swollen pomegranate of a turban, the eyes of the Ottoman grand vizier, Halil Candarli, swept over the waiting Byzantines as he stepped through the gate. A nose as straight and sharp as a cleaver split his olive-skinned face, ending at a perfectly manicured beard.

  The same meticulous care extended to his dress: silk kaftan, of the same crimson as the turban, patterned in gold thread. Over this he wore no jewels or chains of state, nor any dagger in his belt.

  He had no need for ornamentation, carrying instead the air of authority through his feline grace, the senatorial wrinkling of his brow and the confidence of a bloodline that reached back to Osman.

  He gave a curt nod of greeting and, without a word, began to walk in the direction of the palace as if it were already one of his own.

  The Byzantine escort and the retinue of the grand vizier fell into step behind him through the narrow streets of Chora, a comet tail of scarlet and silver.

  They found the whole imperial court gathered as a congregation in the Blachernae throne room.

  The grand vizier was announced and proceeded, stiff as an ikon, across the deep carpet that split the gauntlet of courtiers from the carved doorway to the ivory-pillared dais and its throne.

  Tattooed in paint and egg tempera, the far end of the room was a splash of images and ikons, though this was not a church altar wall and these were not the faces of saints, but an almost blasphemous dedication to the imperial blood lineage that ran from the first Constantine to the eleventh; to the man sat in purple splendour on the dais beneath a jewelled labarum standard, the chi-rho letters in brilliant gold upon blood crimson.

  They had dressed Constantine with all the ancient ceremonial majesty that a mil
lenial empire had to draw upon.

  The silver skull cap of the kamelaukion crown, embroidered with pearls and precious stones, from which dangled heavy pendants of pure gold down to the equally bejewelled maniakion collar, so thick and stiffened that it appeared to almost manacle the body within the robes.

  The robes themselves were a dalmatica of gold and purple silk over which wrapped a long narrow sash, embroidered with gold and heavily embellished with gems. One end of this loros fell to the hem of the gown while the other wound from the hip up and over the left arm. In his gloved hand he fingered the cylindrical pouch of purple silk, the akakia, and felt the shift of the dust within; the dust that symbolised the mortal nature of all men, even those encrusted within an ocean of pearls.

  Without any hint of intimidation, Halil Candarli gave a curt bow before the throne and waited as though it were Constantine attending on him.

  After an awkward pause the emperor cleared his throat and spoke. ‘We are happy to see you in fine health, Halil Pasha, and we are well prepared to know the pleasure of our good neighbour, Sultan Mehmed.’

  ‘My sultan, khan of khans and padishah of all he surveys, sends greetings to you, good king. He hopes Allah may bless you and keep you wise. I come to ensure there is no misunderstanding between our peoples and convey, honestly, the terms that my sultan graciously offers.’

  ‘Terms? He offers terms for what, Pasha?’ A base tone of annoyance quivered in Constantine’s voice.

  ‘Basileus, you know I have always been a friend to Byzantium, so I speak frankly and of my own volition when I warn you that the young sultan has set his heart on the conquest of this city. He never rests from preparations towards this goal.’

  ‘In that he is no different to his father and his father’s father. We have become accustomed to such violent whims from Adrianople. Why should we treat this young whelp with any more caution than others?’

  ‘Basileus, as you know I am a lover of peace and work tirelessly towards persuading the young sultan from his chosen path, but I fear my words are impotent against his fierce will. There will be war between our people this spring unless you agree to the terms I am licensed to convey.’

  ‘Speak then, Pasha, but know our mind is already set.’

  ‘The sultan offers you the chance to live freely and in peace at your palace of Mistra. You, and all among your people who so wish are to vacate the city, leaving the buildings in good order. My lord sultan will guarantee you safe passage through his lands to the Morea for the next three months. Alternatively, he demands an annual tribute to be paid to him of seven hundred thousand ducats. These are the two paths he offers to peace; the only other path leads to war and your certain destruction. Basileus, I pray, be wise. This is a good offer, a fair offer from a position of overwhelming strength. For the love you bear your people, I beg you to accept it. There is no honour lost in recognising a fight that cannot be won.’

  There was a long pause. The room, although crowded with a hundred onlookers, was as silent as a crypt. Candarli and Constantine locked eyes in a stare neither man dared break. The emperor tried hard to conceal his rage, but his purpling neck chords betrayed his temper.

  Finally, Constantine spoke again in a low, almost animal growl. ‘If that is all you have to say, Pasha, you may return to Adrianople. Go tell the sultan that he will have neither tribute nor surrender from me for as long as I draw breath. Let him test himself on our steel as his predecessors have done. We shall find him wanting, as we did all others before. Warn him also that an attack on this holy city shall have consequences. I know he is a scholastic boy, so direct him to the chronicles of Richard Lionheart or Godfrey de Bouillon if he is unsure of what such consequences might be.’

  At the mention of crusaders, the old vizier exploded with anger. ‘You stupid Greeks, I have had enough of your devious ways! You have died today. The late sultan was a lenient and conscientious friend to you. Sultan Mehmed is not of the same mind. You are fools to think that you can frighten us with your fantasies. We are not children without strength or reason. If you think you can start something, do so. If you want to bring the Franks and Hungarians across the Danube, let them come. If you want to recover lands you have long since lost, try this. But know all you will achieve is to lose what little you still have. Your proud words will bring you nothing but the fury of an army more numerous than the stars. We shall cover the plain before your walls and break them down with the hammer of Allah. We will feast in your halls and worship the true God in your churches, and one day the world will forget that Constantinople was ever a Christian place. You will be erased, my lord, your memory washed away from history by the saltwater tears of your doomed people.’

  Constantine bristled silently on his throne and watched the grand vizier turn and march towards the ornate oak doorway.

  A murmur spread around the room as soon as the grand vizier was gone; a swelling of noise, which rolled like an ocean current about the high rafters and carried with it an air of deep dismay. Constantine had refused the last olive branch and set the empire on a course that led with absolute certainty to war.

  Whether due to complacency, resignation or defiance, the banquet for the grand vizier went ahead later that evening, regardless of his absence.

  An unhappy trio of Genoese sat with Grant at one of the outer tables. They had all been watching from the crowd as the vizier held his brief audience with the emperor.

  ‘Be smart, lads,’ said Fieschi. ‘We can sit it out in Pera. The podesta will see us through this. He’ll make a deal with the Turks, same as the one he has cut with the Greeks. We can keep our heads down and earn a good sum from selling to both sides.’

  ‘Hide if you will, but I never ran from a commission I signed up for and I’m not about to start just because things look tough,’ said Grant. Having spent the morning on the wall, he reckoned it a sturdy enough bulwark.

  ‘I’m with the Scotsman!’ Boccanegra said raising his cup. ‘Who says we cannot win just because the odds seem long.’

  ‘There were many a man who said the same at Portofino,’ Fieschi said. ‘The hard truth I learned there, boy, is that if God exists at all, he doesn’t listen to prayers and isn’t bothered by our plight. We’re on our own, so best look out for yourself. Now then, what’s this?’

  Fieschi had seen a man in the livery of a palace domestikos approaching. This servant proceeded to stiffly announce that kyr Grant had been summoned to join the imperial table. Sambucuccio nearly dropped his drink in shock.

  Boccanegra gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Put in a good word for me, would you! A duchy would be nice, but I would settle for a bed here at the palace.’

  Raised up on a platform, the high table was T-shaped with the emperor’s gilt chair at the apex of the T. In this way, several guests could be arranged close to Constantine without anyone sitting directly opposite the imperial person.

  To his immediate left sat the megas doux, and in the crook of the T, across from her father, sat Anna.

  The seat across from her in the other crook was empty. It had been intended for the grand vizier – a position suitably honoured without being within sword’s reach of the emperor. It was to this empty seat that Grant was led.

  With clammy hands, Grant seated himself. He had no experience of formal court functions and feared his lack of etiquette would soon make him look a fool.

  He was relieved to discover that the guest to his right was the old man, Kallinikos. Furthermore, when Constantine barely looked up from his meat and Kallinikos greeted him warmly, it became clear from where his invitation to the table had come.

  ‘My dear, have you met this fine foreign knight?’ Kallinikos said to Anna. He presented Grant to her with a waft of his palm like a farmer with a prize bull to sell.

  She was somehow even more beautiful that night than on the first day he had seen her in the forum.

  They had dressed her with the grand vizier in mind. Had he sat where Grant now sat, how could he not weep at the thou
ght of imperiling this living Byzantine jewel; how could he dream of allowing such rash aggression from his sultan; how could he fail to be stirred by the silk dalmatic, its geometric patterns of ochre and lapis running like water over the delicate female frame; how could he remain immune to the collar of jewels about its pale, slender neck; the scent of labdanum; the hair bound up and woven into an ornate crown of auburn tresses and thin gold wire? How could he avoid the hypnotic power of those hazel eyes, rimmed in kohl and filled with all the mystery and promise of the most ancient of courts? Who could think of war when faced with Aphrodite?

  Here sat an offering; a powdered sweetmeat, meant for the attention of the grand vizier; but instead, in his place, was a Scotsman.

  For a moment she remained as still as a painted ikon, studying him. Then a mischievous smirk cracked her lips. ‘Met? No. Surely I would recall it if we had been formally introduced. I am kyria Anna Notaras.’

  ‘John Grant. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, kyria; or should that be Despoina?’

  Her expression did not alter. ‘Kyria will do fine,’ she said. ‘And what title must we address you by? If you have been knighted, then we must call you kyr Grant. Is that not correct?’

  ‘Do as you please,’ he replied.

  ‘Perhaps then I can call you our last varangian?’ she said. Grant felt his ankle brushed by a slipper beneath the table. He flinched in his seat, and the smile on her face broadened as she saw him twitch.

  ‘Do as you please,’ he said again. ‘Clearly you’re cannie on the histories, kyria.’

  ‘Like my namesake, I have enriched my mind by the quaternion of learning, though I should deserve less credit than her; unlike Komnene, I had a good teacher.’ She nodded at Kallinikos who wore a look of distant disinterest, as though he was unaware of the feast around him. Anna continued. ‘I have also read stories of the recent war between the French and the English. They say that during the siege of a city in that war, a woman – a common women of France – put on armour and led her kinsmen to victory over the English. Is that true, Varangian?’