Assassins of Kantara

by James Boschert

  Gabros nodded. ‘The ship will be ready, my Lord. Where do you want it to be?”

  “I want it to anchor in Neorion Harbor. It has no walls and we can leave at night if need be.”

  “Very well, Master. We are near to the villa at present; do you want to pay the young lady a visit?”

  Pantoleon thought about that. It had been almost a week since he had seen Theodora. He conjured up an image of Theodora’s face, her grey eyes and her thick, reddish hair and long, slim neck. “Yes,” he said. He was more than ready to see her.

  They rode up to the gates of the villa Kalothesos and found them unlocked. The gate man was nowhere to be seen, and his ancient slobbering dog was absent. Gabros warily pushed the gates open with a foot from the saddle and they rode along the unkempt track that led to the villa. Looking around Pantoleon remembered what a gem this property had once been. Almost in the center of the city, it was a beautiful place, or had been. The obvious signs of neglect were everywhere. The overgrown and untended vines, the scummed pools and undergrowth where lawns had once been. The house looked equally unattended. He dismounted and strode up to the main doorway. The front door was unlocked and easily opened.

  He walked into the house with a sense of foreboding. There was no one to be seen, and the feeling that the house was deserted became even stronger as he wandered around the main living room. It was as though the occupants had simply walked out of the door. The remains of a meagre supper were still lying on a low table in front of the cold fireplace. A blanket lay strewn across a low chair which he knew Theodora’s invalid mother had occupied the last time he had visited. No one anywhere. He strode about the house searching for indications that Theodora might still be there.

  “Go and check the outbuildings, search everywhere,” he commanded Gabros.

  Pantoleon wondered if in their unprotected state the house might have been attacked by robbers, but there were no signs of the violence, looting, or wreckage which would accompany such an act. There came a gnawing realization that she had fled, and a cold anger began to grow.

  Gabros arrived on the main terrace and beckoned him. “I have found something, Master.” He led the way out into the derelict garden and pointed to a long patch of freshly dug earth. It looked very like a grave to Pantoleon. He stared at it trying to understand what it meant; slowly he realized that Joannina must have died and Theodora had abandoned the villa. The big unanswered question was why, when he still held her brother. Returning to the house, he sought out the room where she had slept and saw that it was in disarray as though someone had packed hurriedly and just left everything else behind. There were also small signs of pilfering, as though the missing servants had taken what they could before fleeing themselves.

  Pantoleon felt as though the ground had shifted seismically under his feet. He stood looking out of the window at the Golden Gates and found himself trembling. First the dreadful news of Thessalonica and the dire fate of its citizens, not that he cared one whit for the poor people being raped and killed by the barbarous Franks; he sensed, however, that it was a portent of things to come to Constantinople. Then the weird behavior of the emperor, and now the threat of revolution.

  This city was like a volcano about to explode, and the emperor didn’t seem to be anywhere near as concerned as he should be. He was leaving the city at just the time when he was most needed! Pantoleon felt that his life was teetering on the edge of a precipice and unless he did something about it he would be extinguished along with the others.

  Turning to the silent Gabros he said, “Try to find out if she is still in the city. If she is, bring her to me, unharmed. We will use this place for our own, so bring some of our men as guards. This is where we will stay from tomorrow onwards. The emperor need not know, nor that rat Nikoporus. I’ll deal with him before too long.”

  “What about the Kalothesos brother, Master?”

  “Is he still in the cell?”

  “No, he was taken back to the one he shared with those other traitors, Master.”

  “Leave him there for the time being. I have not given the order to kill them yet. It can wait a day or so.”

  With Gabros deployed on the search for Theodora and the bringing together of Pantoleon’s wealth, Pantoleon planned to restore his new holding, but he had little time to enjoy the villa. With the emperor gone, he found himself in the very center of the turmoil that followed the destruction of Thessalonica, both within the palace and in the city of Constantinople. The city seethed with ugly rumors, and words of discontent were being voiced out loud and in the open.

  Men from the Verangian guard who had ventured into the city alone had been found murdered. The orders went out that the guards were to stay at the palace and protect it from the marauding mobs which now roamed the streets at night.

  Pantoleon stared with contempt at the frightened eunuchs and administrators who came cringing to him for directions. No one knew what to do, and as it was he who’d had the emperor’s ear before, it now fell upon him to try and calm the frayed nerves of the palace staff. He had no patience with the generals and naval officers who came to him.

  “Go and do your duty, you craven bastards!” he shouted at them. “Did the emperor not order you to fight? Then find out where your balls are and go fight! Don’t come to me whining!”

  Nikoporus, sensing an opportunity, made an effort to finesse power from him by spreading rumors that he was looking to escape. Gabros found an assassin who took care of that problem, and Nikoporus showed up drowned in the Cistern of Aetius not far from the palace. No one had any idea as to why he would be there, but people settled down after that. The familiar face of terror had been reestablished and Pantoleon was, in the absence of the emperor, the person in charge. But he couldn’t do anything about the raging turmoil about to boil over within the city.

  His men had eventually discovered the location of Isaac Angelos, and a small party was sent off to arrest him. Unfortunately, it did not go well for the arresting officer. The news reached the Blachernae palace late that night, when Gabros hastily ushered a panting messenger into Pantoleon’s rooms.

  “It is out of control, my Lord,” the man said, fidgeting with his belt and sleeves with great agitation.

  “Just calm down and tell me what happened,” Pantoleon commanded him, and he took a deep gulp of his wine. He again felt that the ground had shifted. He exchanged a look with Gabros: this could be the moment they had anticipated.

  “Isaac ran the officer through with his sword, and then before the others could react he fled on horseback to the Hagia, Saint Sophia, where he has taken refuge, Lord. A mob has shown up to support him and they are in an ugly mood. No one can stop them now.”

  “Anyone else of any note?” Pantoleon wanted to know the details.

  “I think that his uncle, Lord John Doukas, is there, and so are many others from the senate, Lord.”

  “So the hyenas are congregating,” Pantoleon said, almost to himself. “You may go now.” The messenger almost ran out of the room. He had no sooner left than there came a banging on the door. Gabros admitted a very agitated Officer of the guard. Without ceremony the man spoke.

  “Lord, I hear there are big disturbances at Saint Sophia. We need to protect the palaces there.”

  “What of the guards that are there already? Can’t they deal with it?” Pantoleon asked reasonably.

  The officer, a tall Saxon hesitated. “I received a messenger from the man in charge there, Lord. He tells me that the mob is huge and that he does not have enough men to deal with any real problems.”

  Pantoleon had done some very fast thinking while the Saxon talked in his halting Greek. “Yes, very well, take all the men you need and go as quickly as you can to aid your comrades,” he said.

  Saluting smartly, the officer ran out of the room, and they could hear him calling to his fellow Verangians in the guttural language of the Norsemen.

  Pantoleon watched him leave, then in the quiet aftermath said, “Come, Gabr
os, it is time we left too. First we will pay the vaults a little visit. We just have time. Bring those men of yours.”

  That night Pantoleon and his men loaded as much of the gold and silver from the vaults as they could onto a covered wagon, which Gabros escorted out of the palace using a pass signed by Pantoleon. The wagon was headed for the villa.

  Pantoleon remained for a few more hours to write a letter to the emperor informing him of the events and begging him to come home, as the city needed his leadership. The messenger was despatched with the letter in the early hours of the morning and told not to stop until he had delivered it. Not long after the messenger had departed, Pantoleon left the palace on horseback, telling the palace guards that he was on his way to St. Sophia and would be back before morning.

  He made his way warily along the Messe, wanting to avoid contact with roaming mobs, only to find the streets were eerily deserted. Everyone, it seemed, had gone to St Sophia or was staying at home. He arrived at the villa not very long after the covered wagon, which had moved much more slowly than a single man on horseback could travel. Gabros had installed it in the stables and mounted a guard. It had not been hard to hire mercenaries; the city was crawling with soldiers for hire who would cut a throat for a couple of solidari.

  Pantoleon sent Gabros and a couple of his men to judge the mood of the mob at St Sophia, while he considered his options and took stock of the contents of the villa. They came back just before dawn looking very concerned. “The man Isaac Angelos has been proclaimed Baselius, Master,” Gabros reported. “They offered the crown to him. Someone from the mob took down the crown from above the high altar and tried to crown him, but he refused.” Pantoleon lifted an eyebrow at that.

  “Then his uncle John asked them to crown him,” Gabros laughed cynically. “The crowd yelled that they were not interested in another Andronikos and they didn’t like his shiny bald head, nor his forked beard!” Then Gabros sobered. “They are out to kill, Lord. It was a good thing we left the palace, as they are heading that way as I speak to you.”

  “Go with them, and report back to me when you can. Be careful. See if you can get hold of that man Kalothesos in the confusion,” Pantoleon ordered him. “I still want him.”

  Gabros left, and Pantoleon went outside onto the slope overlooking the Golden Horn. It was over, that much was clear. Andronikos would never be able to put down the revolution, and even if he could manage it he, Pantoleon, had no part to play in the future of the city. Far better to cut his losses and leave while he could and find a place to start afresh. He thought he heard some kind of roar from the hill above him but wasn’t sure. He imagined that the mob would be well on their way towards the Blachernae palace by now. He pondered his next destination.

  Alexios experienced one of his worst moments of his life when the door crashed shut behind his sister. He sat on the filthy floor on the moldy, excrement- and piss-covered straw and wept in the darkness. Later, he composed himself and knelt, praying for his mother and his sister, begging God to save them from the monster Pantoleon, whom he cursed to hell even while he was praying.

  He held in his possession the long, thin strap that he had slipped off the waist of Theodora. His intent was to find one of the bars and hang himself as quickly as possible and deny Pantoleon his bargaining piece. He couldn’t find anything in the darkness, however, so he slid into a corner and waited. And waited.

  They came for him some days later. His jailers hauled him along by his chains to dump him unceremoniously back into the same cell that he had inhabited for months. As he lay where the jailers had left him, his companions gathered about him demanding to know what had happened. He told them very little, but it passed the time and they were content to hear that he had at least seen his sister. Some of them had not seen anyone, let alone a relative, for as long as they had been in the stinking hell of the dungeon.

  He was still determined to take his own life, and here were bars to which he could attach the belt. However, when he began quietly to inspect the bars, reaching up to then as though measuring them, one of the prisoners who had befriended him asked him what he was doing.

  Alex was evasive, but it didn’t fool the man, whose name was Stephan. “If you are thinking to take your own life, remember it is a sin.” Stephan admonished him.

  “I have nothing to live for at all any more.”

  “Hope is a powerful emotion. Why have you lost all hope?”

  Alexios explained what had happened, omitting nothing, which he thought was ample reason for why he was desperate to die. But Stephan said, “It has many six days since that time. They might have forgotten you, in which case there is still reason to hope.”

  “I hope that my death will release my sister from damnation.”

  Stephan tried to persuade Alex not to go through with his plan, as did the other prisoners, but Alex would not be swayed from his aim. Finally Stephan said, “This is folly, Alexios. But you seem very determined, so I shall help you, as otherwise it is going to be a very hard death. But I shall be damned to hell for doing this awful thing.”

  Alex thanked him.

  They planned it for the following night. The deed would be done, and several hours later the other prisoners would make a lot of noise to attract the attention of the jailers, who would then remove his body.

  They were all seated on the noisome floor the next morning when they heard a disturbance at the entrance to the dungeon. They looked at each other apprehensively, and Alexios began to fear he had waited too long to carry out his desperate plan. The doors crashed open and men with torches and weapons came boiling down the stairs. The prisoners, thinking their time had come, clustered together in the corner of the cell braced for death, but the crowd of yelling and cursing men were shoving captive jailers in front of them, shouting at them to open the cell doors.

  Within moments the doors were thrown open and men were hauling the dazed and bewildered prisoners to their feet and half carrying them out of their cells. Their former jailers were shoved rudely into the cells and the doors slammed shut, followed by much cursing, threats and fist waving.

  Alexios found himself being carried up the stairs and into corridors filled with shouting people who cheered when the former prisoners were ushered out by an escort of helping hands. They were taken out of the palace into the front courtyard, blinking in the glare of sunlight, which none of them had seen for months, even years. Others joined them from the maze below, some weeping and others so confused they could not speak without choking on their emotions.

  The crowd of people seemed to grow in size by the minute, and Alex became aware that the palace was being ransacked by the citizens of Constantinople. He looked at the mob excitedly milling about all around him. Some had items of furniture, silver utensils or paintings and carpets in their hands as they hurried away, even as others were running into the courtyard in hopes of finding their share of the spoils. There was a roar deep inside the palace when the vaults were discovered and the serious plundering of the palace treasury began.

  Soon after a great shout went up and all eyes turned to the northern area of the palace, which led down to the walls overlooking the Bosphorus. “Its Andronikos!” someone yelled. “We have captured the bastard! Now we will see who is the emperor!” Alexios had no choice but to go along with the crowd, although he would have preferred to be on his way home. The crush was so heavy that in his condition he wondered if he would even survive. He felt a hand holding him upright and turned to find Stephen just behind him. “Stay on your feet, Alex, stay on your feet. I’m here,” Stephan yelled at him over the roar of the crowd, which swept them along until they were looking down on the waters of the Golden Horn. He stared down the slope towards the water where several ships surrounded by many smaller boats huddled near to the beach, but standing on the beach was a small group of people who were instantly recognizable.

  It was without doubt the emperor, or rather the former emperor and his ladies, but the change in Andronikos was r
emarkable. Gone was the arrogant emperor who stared straight through people and issued edicts without concern for consequences and surrounded himself with sycophants. Here instead stood a disheveled man in torn clothing, bound and fettered with a chain around his neck that was so heavy he was bowed down by its weight. The women with whom he had fled were relatively unharmed, although they were under guard.

  The sight of the emperor excited the crowd even further. The shouts became a swelling howl of rage and venom. To Alexios’ ears it was the sound of a monster giving vent to its fury. The sound reverberated off the walls of the tall buildings and the walls of the city a few hundred paces to the north.

  Men reached forward to seize Andronikos, and if the guards had not pushed them aside and stood their ground he might well have been torn to pieces there and then, but word spread that Isaac Angelos wanted to confront the deposed emperor. Indeed, there at the front of the mob was Isaac, who despite his earlier refusal to accept the crown was now de facto leader of the revolution.

  Andronikos was thrust before him and forced to his knees. A gradual silence settled on the crowd as they strained their ears to hear what was said. Alexios was too far away to hear anything but a murmur. Then he thought he saw the flash of a sword blade, there was a choking scream, and a huge sigh from the area near Isaac.

  Then the roar began again and he could see Andronikos being hauled in the direction of the palace, which meant that he would be dragged right past him. The guards forced a pathway with their spears, dragging the prisoner in their midst. Alexios strained his neck to see his former tormenter, whose face was screwed up in an expression of agony as he moaned in pain. He was clutching at his right arm with his left hand and there was blood all over his tunic. His right hand had been severed, a crude bandage wrapped around the stump. So the preliminaries for his execution were already under way, Alexios thought to himself. The guards led their stumbling prisoner past the jeering citizens of Constantinople on their way to the dungeons, where Andronikos would spend his last hours.