The youth ignored Hero’s out-held hand. ‘I’ve never heard the name and I’m not interested.’
Hero made one last effort. ‘We still have some time before we reach harbour. This breeze sharpens my appetite. Will you share breakfast with me? Just some bread, figs and cheese. A flask of decent wine.’
The youth rounded on him. ‘Look, I know your type. I’ve had to deal with them since I left Aquitaine.’
‘Aquitaine? That’s interesting. As it happens —’
‘Don’t tell me. You just happen to have a friend from Aquitaine, so why don’t we all get together for a quiet supper. You’re not the first who’s tried that on.’
Hero stepped back. ‘I can see you’re wary of strangers. Do you know anyone in Constantinople? I have a friend in the city who could give you advice on joining the military. In fact I’m here to visit him.’
‘You don’t take no for an answer, do you? I don’t want to share your food. I don’t want to meet your friend.’
Hero coloured. ‘You’re too quick to twist motives. That’s not a trait that will take you far in Constantinople. The city has a reputation for eating strangers.’ The ship was approaching the Golden Horn. ‘I won’t impose on you any further.’ He laid a few coins down. ‘No, don’t throw them back. I know you need them. I bid you goodbye and good fortune.’
Discomfited by the encounter, Hero gathered up his luggage and prepared to disembark. On landing, a customs official noted his name, place of origin and purpose of visit before waving him through onto the teeming quayside. A dozen porters surrounded him, clamouring to know where he wanted to go and offering competing fares even before he’d answered. He let the squall blow out before announcing his destination. ‘I’m travelling to the home of Count Vallon, a Frankish officer in the imperial army.’
One of the porters thrust aside his competitors. ‘I know Vallon. He’s a general now.’ The man pointed across the Golden Horn at a hilly suburb. ‘He lives in Galata, right at the top.’
The porter took Hero’s luggage and hurried towards a ferryboat. At the water’s edge, Hero looked back to see that the passengers had dispersed, leaving the Frankish youth alone on the quay. Their eyes met, then the porter took Hero’s arm and assisted him into the boat. When the two oarsmen were into their stroke, Hero turned a last time to see the young Frank walking towards the city gate, pestered by touts. A laden cart shut him from view, and when it had passed, the Frank was gone, swallowed by the city.
Watching the shore approach, Hero experienced a tingle of pleasurable anticipation. Nine years had passed since he’d last seen Vallon, and though they had exchanged a few letters, he didn’t know what changes time had wrought in his old companion. He was delighted to hear that Vallon was now a general – a promotion long overdue in Hero’s opinion. Vallon’s correspondence shed little light on his military career. His letters, written in laboured Greek, were mainly about his family and the observations he’d made on his travels.
Despite his pleasure at the prospect of meeting his friend again, Hero couldn’t suppress a twinge of resentment. The request – more like a summons – to journey to Constantinople had meant leaving his prosperous medical practice and a comfortable tenure at the University of Salerno. What rankled most was the formality of the letter – not a personal request from Vallon himself, and therefore to be met without hesitation, but a stiff demand from the Logothete tou Dromou stating that Vallon was engaged on important imperial business and had insisted on Hero joining him without delay.
The ferry reached the opposite shore. The porter gestured at the hill. ‘You’ll be wanting a mule.’
‘I’ve been at sea for two weeks. I’d prefer to walk.’ Hero saw the porter’s disappointment. ‘Of course you must hire a mule to carry my bags.’
They entered Galata through a gate and climbed past handsome walled villas with feathery black cypresses and gnarled mulberry trees growing in courtyard gardens.
‘Mind if I ask where you’re from?’ the porter said. ‘You speak Greek like a proper gentleman, but you aren’t from Constantinople. I can tell.’
‘I grew up in Syracuse and now I live in Salerno.’
‘Travelled a fair bit, I’d say. I heard you talking Arabic to one of the porters.’
Hero smiled. ‘A fair bit.’
‘Like where, sir? I enjoy hearing about different places. I’ve met people from all over – Spain, Egypt, Rus. Me, I’ve never been no further than the Black Sea.’
Hero bowed in passing to a respectable couple. ‘Well, I’ve been to the land of the Franks and I’ve visited England.’
‘Lord, that must have been a trial.’
Memory loosened Hero’s tongue. ‘From there I sailed to Iceland and then journeyed south to Anatolia and the court of Emir Suleyman, now the Sultan of Rum. That was nine years ago.’
The porter’s eyes popped. ‘You met that devil Suleyman? Well I never. Forgive me for asking, sir, but if it was that long ago, you must have been awful young.’
‘I was eighteen.’
The porter had to wrench his gaze away. ‘I’d love to hear more, sir, but here we are at General Vallon’s residence.’
Hero faced the door and took a deep breath. The porter jangled the bell. Bolts scraped free. The gate opened and a thickset man with moustaches like wings stepped out. Both of them gaped, then Hero stumbled back.
‘You!’
Wulfstan swept him up in an embrace. ‘Hero, my old friend.’
Hero wrenched loose. ‘You’re no friend. What are you doing here? How did…?’ He broke off in confusion. The last time he’d see Wulfstan had been on the River Dnieper, when the Viking and his companions had deserted Vallon’s company to pursue a Russian slave ship. Shock made Hero pant. ‘You left us to die. You promised to wait for us at the estuary.’
Wulfstan scratched his head and grimaced. ‘I know it must have looked that way. We came back for you, found your campsite, the fire still warm. We missed you by hours.’
‘But how did you find your way into Vallon’s service?’
‘Long story.’ Wulfstan took Hero’s luggage from the open-mouthed porter. Only then did the Sicilian register that the Viking had lost his left hand and his arm ended in a stump. This he threw across Hero’s back before shepherding him into the courtyard. Hero took in his surroundings with dazed approval. The whitewashed villa formed a square C, with a vine-clad loggia running the length of the main dwelling. In the garden, blossoms covered fruit trees in a haze of pink and white.
Wulfstan winked at Hero. ‘I can’t wait to see the general’s face when he claps eyes on you.’ The Viking cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘General Vallon,’ he called. ‘Look who’s here.’
Vallon emerged from the villa, followed by a young man. Vallon stopped stock still and his jaw dropped. ‘Good lord,’ he said. Then he ran down the steps. ‘Hero, my dear Hero. What a delightful surprise.’
He seized Hero’s hands and they stood smiling at each other, taking stock. Age had not been unkind to Vallon. The same lean and upright frame, the nose more aquiline and the face more lined, the auburn hair beginning to grey at the temples.
Vallon steered the youth forward. ‘You’ve heard me speak of Hero many times. Well, here he is, and looking most distinguished. Hero, may I present Aiken, my English son by adoption. His father was a companion in arms.’
Hero shook Aiken’s hand. The youth had a pleasant, intelligent countenance and a quiet and courteous manner. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, sir.’
Vallon laughed. ‘I still can’t believe it. Caitlin will be devastated to have missed you. She and the girls are visiting friends in the country. They’re due back tomorrow.’ He draped an arm over Hero’s shoulder. ‘But what brings you to Constantinople? Why didn’t you write to let us know you were coming?’
‘A letter wouldn’t have reached you in time. I sailed as soon as I received the summons.’
Vallon stopped. ‘Summons? I sent no summons.’
<
br /> ‘From the Logothete tou Dromou, asking me to join you in Constantinople with all haste.’
Vallon’s hand dropped from Hero’s shoulder. His gaze drifted away. He plucked at his mouth. ‘Oh, God.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Vallon took a breath and braced himself. ‘We’ll talk at supper. You must be tired from your journey.’ He turned to Wulfstan. ‘Show Hero to his room.’ Two servants – a middle-aged man and a young girl – had appeared on the veranda. ‘Peter, Anna, attend to our guest’s comfort. He’s travelled all the way from Italy.’
Wulfstan talked non-stop as he led the way to an airy room overlooking the Bosporus. Peter began unpacking Hero’s bags. ‘Wulfstan, my arrival seems to have shocked Vallon.’
‘Shocked us both.’
‘In Vallon’s case, not pleasantly.’
‘What are you talking about? He’s thrilled to see you.’
‘Is anything troubling him?’
‘Far from it. At last he’s got the promotion he deserves. Know why? He saved the emperor’s life at Dyrrachium.’ Wulfstan’s forehead wrinkled. ‘What’s the matter?’
Hero forced a smile. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Meeting old friends after a long absence is always an emotional shock.’
‘It’s no strain for me. I never had nothing but respect for you – the way you used your healing arts on anybody who needed them, even if they were your enemy. If you need anything, just call me. Anything.’
‘Thank you. Right now all I want is rest.’
Wulfstan grinned. ‘What stories we have to tell.’ He raised his hand and stole out of the room like a benign troll. The maid was still making up the bed, plumping the pillows. Peter was arranging Hero’s luggage. A bowl of fruit had appeared on a table by the window and a ewer of water and clean cloths stood on a washstand. Peter bowed. ‘A bath will be ready at your convenience. Is there anything else you require?’
‘No. I’m much obliged.’
Alone at last, Hero went to the window and gazed down on the Bosporus, the sea-lane criss-crossed with barges and caiques and dromons and fishing boats. Over there on the Asian shore, no more than two weeks’ ride to the south-east, Wayland and Syth were going about their lives. What had become of them? Did they still retain their English language and customs, or had they adopted Turkish manners? Fatigue smothered Hero’s speculations. He plopped onto the bed, sat for some time in a slack-jawed trance, then undressed, slipped under the bedclothes and fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
He woke muzzy-headed in the dark. A figure glided in and lit a lamp. Hero sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘The church bells have just rung vespers,’ Peter said. ‘The master says you mustn’t stir yourself until you’re fully rested. He was most insistent on that point. If you’re hungry, I can bring supper to your room.’
‘Tell General Vallon that I’d like to join him. Perhaps after a bath.’
‘I’ve taken the liberty of preparing one.’
A mosaic of fanciful sea creatures decorated the bath-house. After a hot soak, Hero took a cold plunge and rose clear-headed to find Peter waiting with freshly laundered clothes. The servant led him into a salon painted with frescoes of pastoral scenes inspired by Ovid’s stories. Vallon rose from the table. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous.’
Over a simple meal of grilled red mullet and spring salad, Vallon explained how he had come to adopt Aiken. ‘I’d be grateful if you spent some time with the boy. I think he’ll find your company more congenial than mine. His teachers say that he has quite a gift for logic and rhetoric.’
Hero sensed stresses in the relationship. ‘I’d be delighted.’ He glanced round and lowered his voice. ‘What’s that treacherous ruffian Wulfstan doing here?’
Vallon smiled. ‘I found him begging in the street. After reaching Constantinople, he and the rest of the Northmen joined the Byzantine navy and saw service against the Arabs in the Mediterranean. That’s where he lost his hand.’
‘Yes, but after abandoning us the way he did…’
‘If I’d been in his shoes, I might have done the same. And in the end his conscience did override his greed and made him return to the estuary. By then we’d already committed ourselves to the waves.’
Hero shuddered. ‘The most hideous experience of my life. It was a miracle we were saved.’
Peter cleared away the dishes and left. Vallon swirled wine around his beaker. ‘I can’t apologise enough for you being dragged all this way on a wasted journey.’
‘I don’t count seeing you again as a waste.’
‘You believe me when I say that I had nothing to do with the summons?’
‘Of course. But what was the Logothete’s purpose?’
‘Since it doesn’t concern you, it’s better if you don’t know.’
‘That won’t do. We didn’t keep secrets from each other on our quest to carry the ransom hawks to Anatolia.’
Vallon laughed. ‘Yes, we did.’
‘Then this time let’s start by being completely open.’
Vallon pursed his lips and stared into his glass. ‘After I came to the emperor’s attention at Dyrrachium, the Logothete examined the reasons that brought me to Constantinople. He read your account of our travels and on the strength of that document and my military record, he decided I was the right man to escort another expedition.’
‘Where to?’
Vallon’s jaw worked. ‘Well, since the Logothete has deluded himself that you’ll join me, he can hardly protest if I tell you our goal.’ He glanced up, the lamplight hollowing out his features. ‘China, the realm of the Song emperor.’
Hero let his breath go in a low whistle.
Vallon smiled after a fashion. ‘My first reaction, too – or it would have been if I’d been at liberty to express myself. The Logothete conducted the interview in the presence of the Emperor Alexius and the Empress-Mother. On a cold winter’s night in the imperial box at the Hippodrome.’
Hero straightened in his seat. ‘Why does the emperor want to send you to China?’
‘To establish relations with the Song court. Personally, I can’t see what Byzantium will gain by exchanging niceties with a heathen potentate dwelling in a land a year’s journey away.’
‘An alliance must produce some benefits. News of it would certainly burnish the emperor’s prestige.’
Vallon nodded. ‘There’s more. On his travels into the East, did Master Cosmas come across a compound called Fire Drug? It’s an incendiary even more violent than Greek Fire. The Logothete believes it has important military applications and wants me to obtain the formula.’
Hero shook his head. ‘Cosmas never mentioned such a compound.’
‘It probably doesn’t exist except in myth. Well, no matter.’ Vallon raised his hand to forestall protest. ‘You’ll stay here for as long as you wish and then return to Italy at the Logothete’s expense. I’ve already despatched a letter to the minister expressing my outrage at his deception.’
Hero traced a pattern on the tabletop. ‘I assume that he thought I would be an asset on the enterprise. Obviously you don’t share his opinion.’’
‘The journey there and back will take at least three years. I regard it as a death sentence.’
‘I take it that you’re not in a position to refuse the commission.’
‘You’re right. I face my fate knowing that if I perish, my family won’t suffer.’
Hero mused for a while. ‘Could I have another glass of that excellent wine?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Vallon, raising the flagon. ‘The whole business has unsettled me. What grieves me most is the dissension it’s caused between me and Caitlin. Imagine how she feels, knowing that I’ll be gone for years, probably never to return.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘At the beginning of the sailing season. We sail to Trebizond on the Black Sea, cross Armenia and then strike through Seljuk Persia armed with a safe
conduct from the Sultan.’ Vallon uttered a sardonic laugh.
Hero raised the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. ‘Cosmas told me that the Chinese are a most ingenious race, with many inventions and wonders to their credit. It would be a singular privilege to study their arts and engineering.’
Vallon swallowed his wine and poured another cup, the neck of the flagon chattering on the rim.
‘No, I won’t allow you to come. Consider how I’d feel if you died on the journey.’
‘Consider how I’d feel if I let you go without me.’
‘I’m duty-bound. You aren’t. I have family to consider. You don’t.’
Hero’s mouth tightened. ‘Each of us has different motives. In my case, I’d accompany you out of choice, to satisfy my curiosity, to further my store of knowledge. An expedition to China would be the adventure of a lifetime.’
‘Do you despise your profession so much that you’d throw it away for a land march into the unknown?’
‘I’m still only twenty-seven. I have half a lifetime in which to practise medicine.’
Vallon knocked over his glass and swore. ‘Hero, you’re not coming. Let’s talk of other matters. I insist.’
Hero drank no more than a couple of sips. ‘Do you think Wayland has received a similar summons?’
Vallon glanced around as if he half-expected to find someone lurking in the shadows. ‘No, thank God. Even if the Logothete’s influence extended as far as Suleyman’s court, Wayland wouldn’t abandon Syth and the children to go traipsing to the end of the world on some unknown minister’s say-so.’
‘You said “children”. That means an addition to the family.’
‘A girl, born three years ago. I have the letter in my study. Bring your wine and we’ll read it together.’
Vallon took Hero to a small room furnished with a table overflowing with papers. Vallon waved at them in disgust. ‘I’m still struggling to complete my report on the last campaign.’ He rummaged in a casket that held his personal correspondence. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Wayland’s command of written Arabic is as weak as mine.’
Imperial Fire Page 6
