"No."
"Come on, Lykaion. It's the only sensible thing to do."
"I won't run and leave the guilty to revel in their success. If this is Bin Murad's doing I'll see him dead for it."
"I hear that Crete is quite welcoming of defecting Turks…"
"No, Skiouros, and that's an end to it. You can flee, but I must track down this Mamluk."
The pair lapsed into silence, and finally Skiouros let out a burst of air and rubbed his temple, his brow furrowed.
"You look like a man planning a battle" Lykaion commented, looking sidelong at him.
"After a fashion, I am. We go to keep watch on the northern face of the Bucoleon then?"
Again, Lykaion shook his head. "I will not drag you into my darkness, brother. You may be a thieving sinner in the eyes of the prophet, but you're a lucky one and a born survivor. Stay away from me."
"I am more than a mere thief, Lykaion. I'm your brother. Whatever else happens, I'm not about to let you face trouble alone." He gave a light laugh. "Besides, you have the street sense of a sick donkey. You wouldn't last two minutes in the backstreets without me."
"It will be difficult, and dangerous, and there is very little chance I will succeed."
"I know. Believe me I know. And that's why I'm coming along. Once you've seen this Mamluk and found out what he's about, you'll realise there's nothing else you can do, and I think - hope - you'll see the error of your ways. Then we can go to the port and arrange passage."
"Unlikely."
"We'll see. But you'll get nowhere without me watching your back, that's for certain. So to the Bucoleon it is… via somewhere for me."
Lykaion narrowed his eyes suspiciously and then sighed and nodded. "Come on, then."
With a brisk pace the pair descended the stairs once more and, as Skiouros reached for the door handle to throw it open to the street, Lykaion's hand fell on his and held it firm.
"Listen" he hissed.
The two fell silent, the only noise in the building a tuneless hummed ditty issuing from one of the rooms on the top floor. As Skiouros listened, frowning and trying to work out what his brother had heard, a regular pulse began to draw his attention. A drum. A drum being rhythmically pounded in the street, not far away.
"Janissaries?" he asked quietly. Lykaion nodded and moved Skiouros' hand aside, inching the door open little more than a crack and angling his head to peer through. A small party of four guards were making their way down the street and shouting, a pounding drum warning the Greek second-class citizens to stay out of their way.
"Stupid" Skiouros whispered.
"What?"
"If they're looking for you, I mean. Stupid to advertise their presence with a drum."
"They're not looking for me. They're distributing my name and description to the public and the details of a reward. That's how they do it, particularly in the foreign enclaves. They know they have no chance of finding me themselves, but they also know that someone here will turn me in for the money."
Sure enough, as Skiouros listened he could hear the names 'Lykaion, son of Nikos' and 'Hussein Bin Nikos' being shouted. He was impressed that the guard were offering a gold sultani for his brother's capture or information leading to the same. It was a sad fact that there was no one he could think of who would stay silent for even a couple of silver akce, let alone gold.
"We'd best not be seen in the street, even if you're now less obvious."
Lykaion took a deep breath. "Will they find your room from father's name?"
"There must be the children of a hundred Nikos-es living in Phanar. No. They need more than that, Come on."
Swiftly, Skiouros led his brother back along the narrow wooden corridor, past the staircase and to a small door that led out into the stinking alley behind the building. Wrinkling his nose at the acrid assault on the senses, Lykaion followed the thief out into the alley and moved along it hurriedly, trying not to tread in anything too unpleasant, and failing repeatedly.
Despite having spent almost the same number of years in the city as his brother - barring brief actions against the Mamluks in Anatolia - and having sporadically met with him at the 'Bloody' church, Lykaion's geography of the city was largely confined to the areas to which his duty took him; largely the higher class areas with open boulevards.
As Skiouros expertly navigated the alleys and streets, nipping into apparent dead ends, only to bring them by some tortuous route out onto another street, the older brother quickly became quite hopelessly turned around until, almost half an hour later, they emerged from a narrow alley's mouth and into an open space.
The Mese streamed with life in both directions and it took Lykaion a moment to orientate himself, with three landmarks standing out. Ignoring the Roman aqueduct that ran between the Third and Fourth hills and which still brought water to the population, he focused on the Dulgerzade mosque across the road. Two Turkish nobles stood by the street entrance, chatting absently as carts and pedestrians flowed past them. Instinctively, given his situation, the fugitive Janissary pulled back into the shadows of the passageway. Skiouros came to a sudden halt and turned to him.
"What are you doing? We need to keep moving."
"We're in too much danger. Everyone here's Ottoman. We'll stand out too much - attract attention. We should have waited 'til dark."
Skiouros shook his head and reached out to take his brother's cloak by the shoulder. "There's dozens of Greek merchants and beggars in the streets. So long as we move quietly and quickly, as if we're on our way somewhere, we'll be ignored. If you start panicking and lurking, that's when you'll draw attention. Now come on; we're going to church."
Lykaion fought his grip and pointed at the building opposite where the two Turks' attention was now straying around the street. "I can't go in there. Are you mad?"
"I wasn't talking about the mosque. There."
Lykaion followed his brother's pointing finger and his eyes fell on the third landmark. The sprawling ruins of a once-great church stood next to the Mese a hundred yards away. He'd walked past the crumbling structure any number of times when reporting to the city walls, but had never given it a moment's thought. Even for a church it had seemed unworthy of his attention, the missing windows staring out of a cracked and crumbling façade in a manner that reminded him disturbingly of a skull.
"What?" he demanded incredulously.
"I told you I wanted to stop somewhere on the way. And at least you can guarantee none of your Janissary friends will be in there."
Lykaion was too confused to fight his brother's grip any more and staggered out into the street, turning to follow him as casually as possible when he realised how his sudden jerky appearance must look.
"I think that in fairness I'd rather risk a visit to the Dulgerzade Camii" he hissed.
"Stick to Greek. If you start speaking Turkish you really will attract attention."
As they neared the ruins, a chilling gale blowing up the valley between the Third and Fourth hills and through the gaping arches of the ancient aqueduct bridge, Lykaion viewed the tall, jagged and roofless brick face of the church's north wall with something of a mix of nervousness and distrust. The building seemed faintly threatening, despite the fact that he'd spent much of his youth in smaller churches of the same style praying to the Christian God. The mounting sense of panic almost turned him back and, as they approached the worn and damaged steps, Skiouros grasped his shoulder once more to drag him onwards.
Lykaion felt a cold shudder as he passed across the threshold - entirely a product of his own imagination, he was sure. The ruined church was missing almost all of its roof, and the great dome that had formed the centre was visible now only as curved ribs reaching up to the cold blue sky. The interior was almost entirely demolished or removed, fragments of once fine marble at the bottom of the walls showing how the floor had been taken away to decorate some other structure. Many of the pillars had gone, making Lykaion worry for the structural soundness of the remaining walls
.
Whatever had caused the destruction of this church, it had clearly happened long ago and it was no victim of Mehmet's conquest. That knowledge somehow put his quailing heart at a little more ease and he began to take something of an interest.
"Why are we here?" he asked his brother quietly as they passed through the first hollow space and under a wide arch into the main hall.
Skiouros glanced sidelong at him and smiled strangely.
"This, dear brother, was the church of Saint Polyeuktos. Took me some asking around and research to find out much about it. See the altar over there?"
Lykaion peered through the undergrowth beginning to take command of the church's central floor, past a shattered colonnade screen and to a heavy marble altar that bore the marks of both time and deliberate ruination.
"Yes?"
"That's where the head of the saint used to be kept."
"Until you stole it?" The older brother gave a nervous half-laugh.
"That's not particularly funny, Lykaion." He took a deep breath and scratched his short hair fiercely. "Actually, it seems that no one knows what happened to the head. Regardless, this is the one church in the city that I can come to where no priest is going to demand a confession of me or badger me for a donation."
"You're not that pious, brother. You never were. Why are you bothered with a church at all?"
"No, I'm no zealot, but Saint Polyeuktos has become something of a personal mascot for me. His church saved me from your friends the first year I was here. I was trapped in plain sight by that very altar and half a dozen Janissaries walked straight past me. It's the only time in my life I've ever believed in miracles."
Lykaion frowned as they neared the altar.
"So you've come here to pray? Don't expect me to join in, brother."
Skiouros gave him that strange smile again.
"Hardly. But the thing is that Polyeuktos is also the patron of promises and deals, and I feel I need to tie you to one."
Coming to a halt, the younger brother slapped the flat of his palm down on the chipped and damaged marble of the once fine altar. Lykaion could just make out worn Greek script around the edge, but with no hope of reading it.
"Put your hand on the altar."
"I left your church behind long ago, Skiouros."
"I'm sure God doesn't care - or Allah. Put your hand down."
Obediently, and not entirely sure why he was agreeing to this, Lykaion slapped his palm onto the cold marble. A plethora of nesting rooks suddenly exploded into life in the arched ruins just below the dome, bursting up into the air in a chorus of croaks and flapping. Panicked, Lykaion withdrew his hand.
"Nature" Skiouros smiled. "Nothing more."
Still nervously eyeing the departing black birds, Lykaion placed his hand back on the chilly hard surface.
"I'm going to make a vow to you," his brother stated in a quiet, forceful manner, "but in return I want one back."
"That depends on the vow."
Skiouros patted the marble fondly. "I vow in the sight of God and Saint Polyeuktos to help you try to achieve retribution or justice in every way I can, as long as it is possible."
He locked Lykaion in a piercing gaze.
"In return, I want you to swear that the moment it becomes obvious to you that our task is impossible, you'll come with me on one of the Venetian traders and head for Crete?"
"Skiouros..."
"I lost something of my brother to the Janissaries almost a decade ago. I won't lose the rest to bloody-minded pig-headedness. You'll only leave with me when you agree that there's nothing more we can do. Surely you can avow me that?"
Lykaion looked down at his hand, doubt over giving his word on the subject vying with nerves at doing so in a church of the Christian God. It seemed, curiously, to feel both wrong and right at the same time.
"I swear it."
"On the head of Saint Polyeuktos?" prompted Skiouros.
"Don't push it. I swear; leave it at that."
Skiouros swept his hand from the altar. "Thank you. Right now you can only see the need to revenge yourself and clear your own name, but I can see the impossibility of it. I can wait for you to join me in that realisation and leave the city, so long as you don't get yourself killed in the meantime."
Lykaion pursed his lips and sighed.
"I think you're wrong, but we'll see."
As the older brother pulled his own hand away, Skiouros smiled. "Then in that case, let's go and have a look at the Bucoleon palace; see if we can't spot a Mamluk murderer."
The journey on from the sprawling ruins of the church became at the same time easier and more dangerous. The main road that they followed south towards the great Theodosian harbour was thronged with people of all colours and classes, as was always the case in main thoroughfares radiating from a port, and the pair found they could easily lose themselves in the flow of varied life.
In the forum of the Ox, the situation was much the same, there being hardly room to walk between the press of people, lending the pair perfect anonymity. From there, two small side streets full only of the lowest strata of society took the brothers to the long, winding road that followed the line of the Propontine sea walls, another route that thrived with busy multicultural workers and low characters. Here, Lykaion noted, they were more likely to be set upon by thugs than by the authorities, and he observed that his brother seemed to be of the same opinion, judging by the fact that they had both placed their hands on the pommel of their knives as they walked.
Despite the tension and potential trouble, though, their worries proved unfounded, and after another forty minutes of walking they emerged into a wide street and were confronted with the vast, monumental arc of the hippodrome's southern curve.
Lykaion peered at the towering, breath-taking and graceful curve of the long-abandoned structure, sadly now missing much of its white marble and displaying only heavy walls of brick. He'd seen it many times before, but it remained to him one of the city's most astounding images, despite its frowned-upon pagan nature that made Imams spit venom. Legend had it that the city had almost been destroyed by fire in a riot that started in that very stadium. If the ordinary Turkish settlers who now filled its homes thought that the Mamluks were assassinating viziers within the city - particularly with the aid of an Ottoman officer - there might very well be another city-threatening riot. Now there was food for thought.
Turning his eyes from the hippodrome's magnificent curve, he focused instead on the expanse of the Bucoleon ahead. One of the old emperors had walled this section of the city off with thick, high defences, creating a small, fortified, self-contained palace, but the Ottoman rulers had their own palaces and fortresses, constructed of delicate arches and arcades, domes and turrets, all in the city's high places. They had abandoned old imperial residences like the Blachernae and the Bucoleon, utilising them instead as barracks, diplomatic quarters, prisons and more. Little over half the great Bucoleon wall now remained, and the buildings that constituted the palace complex were once more public and open.
Moving on away from the hippodrome arches, the pair made for one of the demolished sections of the wall, through which a broad avenue now ran and there, sitting at the end of the road, stood the huge, white marble bulk of the Bucoleon palace. With its delicate arched windows and decorative stonework, it remained the most stunning of all the secular works to remain from the old city, supplanted in beauty only by the new Ottoman palaces and minarets. If one were to be a foreign ambassador from an enemy nation, there could surely be no more fabulous place to be imprisoned.
The thought turned Lykaion sour once more as he reminded himself that if he was not mistaken, that Mamluk was anything but a prisoner.
"Have you given any thought as to where we'll wait?" Skiouros asked quietly as they slowed, nearing the building. A wide space had been left open before the palace's north façade: a broad boulevard with an extra area of gardens and fountains to the north that prevented any other building from i
ntruding upon the former imperial residence. The statues of Gods and emperors that had filled the garden had all long gone, but the bases that had held them remained in irregular patterns throughout the park and along the side of the wide street.
Lykaion nodded as he eyed the front of the palace carefully. There were no guards outside either the major or minor entrance to the north. Presumably any sentries assigned by the Janissaries would be in guardrooms inside the building; after all, their official duty was to keep foreigners inside the building rather than intruders out.
"There's two places that should have a good view of the doors. I've done a couple of stints of duty in the Bucoleon, and I think they should be safe enough from view. The Ilyas Chapel is the closest with the most direct view of the door, but it's ruined, unstable and dangerous. Even the staircase is partially gone, so I don't fancy trying that. The Pharos tower will give the best view, but it's further away, at the far end of the gardens."
Skiouros scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The Pharos is the obvious answer. Question is: can we get in? It's still in use, yes?" He'd passed it several times on his infrequent tours of this end of the city, but had never lingered to investigate, being so close to a place where Janissaries patrolled.
"In a way" Lykaion replied. "There's rarely anyone in it and if they are, they'll be up at the top, where the important workings are. If we can get to the first walkway a third of the way up, we can stay there and watch with relative comfort. The downside is that the door will be locked. We'll have to break it down and risk the possibility that someone will come along and discover it."
"We could always use a grapple and climb the wall on the north side where it can't be seen from the palace - I know where to lay my hands on the tools back at the harbour."
"No. No grapples or climbing."
Skiouros raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
Thief's Tale Page 12
