‘Inshallah,’ she said. Pulling the crossbow over her shoulder, covering herself and it with her cape, she headed down one of the curving alleys towards her vessel.
Gregoras had left his skiff in a cluster of similar fishing boats, indistinguishable each from the other. But he had told its Ragusan captain to hang a red lamp from his mast, and it was this that he spotted as he burst out of the water gates and onto the docks. ‘There,’ he yelled, shoving his companion towards it. Glancing back, he saw the pursuit emerge from the gateway, halt, spot them, start running again. They had barely a hundred and fifty paces of lead. He could only hope that the considerable purse he’d given the captain had bought obedience. His order had been to keep the sails furled on the mast, oars in the rowlocks and the vessel on a single tie, ready to cast off fast.
They reached the boat. The captain rose from behind the gunwales. In a glance, Gregoras saw that he had not been obeyed. Three ropes held the vessel to the dock. The sail lay in folds upon the deck.
Shouts came from behind them as he and Grant scrambled aboard, the small vessel tipping with their weight and velocity. Steadying, Gregoras bellowed, ‘Cast off!’
The man shook his head. ‘Feel that?’ He tipped his head into the breeze. ‘You know what they say: “When the bura sails, you don’t.”’
Instead of hot anger, Gregoras felt as cold as that wind. ‘You don’t,’ he said, and bending at the knees, he placed his hand in the other man’s chest, stood straight and launched the captain over the side of his vessel into the water. Using his falchion, he slashed the three ropes in three sharp strokes. ‘Row!’ he yelled, then leaned over to the dock, giving it a huge shove. The boat moved away, as Grant gathered the oars and dropped them into their locks.
The first two pirates had reached the jetty and were running down it, screaming. The rest were close behind. Reaching over his shoulder, Gregoras lifted his crossbow above his head with one hand, the other delving into the quiver at his hip. Thrusting the front end onto the deck, he shoved his foot into the stirrup, pulled the string to its notch, had the weapon raised as he dropped the bolt into its channel. There was no question of aiming, no time to do so. The closer of the pirates was three paces away when he pulled the trigger.
The bolt sent the pirate flying back, his sword arm smashing into the other’s face. Both sprawled on the dock. Grant had got one oar in, was struggling with the other. Dropping his weapon, Gregoras grabbed the second oar, leaned out and pushed it against the jetty. A big shove, and some current began to take them. There was now a patch of water between them and their pursuers.
An arrow smacked into the mast. Dropping the other oar into its lock, Gregoras shouted, ‘Row,’ and bent again for his bow.
Stanko had seen his dreams of Turkish gold explode in his cellar. Then they were running away from him down an alley. Now they were on a boat, drifting forever and finally beyond his reach. Unless …
Vaulting over his prone men, he leapt into the water.
Gregoras turned at the huge splash in time to see the pirate chief surface and, in three strong strokes, propel himself to the boat’s side. When he grabbed it, his weight tipped it, and Gregoras thought they were going to capsize. Only by throwing himself backwards was that avoided. But now he could only watch helplessly as the man used the counterweight to haul himself up over the gunwales. Gregoras saw moonlight reflect in the jagged piece of glass still sticking straight through the man’s neck. Why hadn’t it killed the bastard? he wondered, as he reached for his dagger and waited for a chance to do just that.
Stanko had pulled his body half over when an oar rose out of its lock and the blade end was thrust forward. Not into the man’s face. Not to smash his grip on the wood. Straight into the glass that protruded from his neck.
‘And that’s for calling me a bloody German,’ John Grant cried.
It was surprising that the pirate had lived so long. It didn’t take much movement of the glass to sever the artery, so close it must have been. Stanko looked as if he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. Just lost his grip and sank slowly back into reddening water.
Gregoras was not so stunned that he did not leap forward to balance the boat again. When he finally did grab and load his crossbow, he did not shoot. The five left on the dock had no weapons raised, showed no desire for a swim. They were all just staring at the floating body of their former chief.
One at each oar, Gregoras and Grant steered their vessel between the tied-up fishing smacks. Soon they were clear of them and nosing into the choppy waters at the edge of the harbour mouth. Free of the shelter of the hilly island, the wind was blowing from behind them, bobbling them about. Without talk, the two men got the sail up, and Gregoras was relieved to see that Grant appeared to know more about it than he did. In fact, he soon left him to it and, finding that his legs were a little wobbly, sat down.
Something poked into his thigh. He reached, discovered the Scotsman’s satchel and, sticking from it, a crossbow quarrel.
He jerked it out. Its steel tip was red with congealing blood, but it was the flights that made him stare harder. For they were not thin pieces of wood, slotted into curved grooves, as was most common. These were of feather – heron’s, he thought, by their grey-blue tips. Feather flights had to be glued on, and the helix that would spin the bolt in flight required a fine judgement of both eye and finger in the making. He knew because it was a style of bolt he would fashion himself, before a campaign began, and save for a special shot. Once used up, he rarely had time to make more, would revert to their easily acquired, wood-fletched cousins. He’d thought such skill beyond a pirate’s patience, to be sure.
He shivered, glanced back … but Korcula was lost to night. And so was the bowman, who, he decided, they’d been lucky to survive.
– SEVEN –
Rendezvous
John Grant leaned upon the railing, doing what most of the men aboard were doing – trying to disperse with prayer the mist that had trapped them for three days. The breath of Circe, it was called. The witch’s exhalation blinded ships like theirs, luring them onto the rocks.
He licked his lips, as ever craving more than the wine that had passed over them on their three-week voyage – by skiff, fishing boat and, at last, this carrack – from Korcula. Something stronger might fill the void he felt whenever he thought of what was being asked of him. He was a good engineer, a builder-up and knocker-down of stone. A delver beneath the earth. He could wield a sword, if he must. Yet his life had been saved for quite a different skill he was rumoured to possess.
Anger came with the fear. The skill was to do with an ancient weapon of war. One that had saved the city of Constantinople more than once from Islam’s assault. But it was a Greek invention. It was named for them. So why, by the Pope’s shrivelled balls, did the Greeks need a Scotsman to rediscover it for them?
Grant sighed. Like the pirates, it was the chemist’s art his new patrons required. As with a distillation of fruit or barley, there were elements to be mixed in precise measures to achieve the required effect. It was the proportion of those elements that had been lost. The formula. It was said that an angel whispered it into the ear of the first emperor of the city, for whom it was named: Constantine.
‘Whisper it to me,’ Grant muttered. Closing his eyes, he again did what he rarely did, had done so little since he left his home. He prayed. ‘Oh merciful and most just God, if it be Thy will, remove the scales from Thy unworthy servant’s eyes. Help him to see.’
Head bent, eyes closed, he stood awhile in silent contemplation. Until someone stepped up to the rail beside him and spoke. ‘At last,’ said Gregoras.
Grant opened his eyes. It was as if that same Circe who had breathed it out was now sucking the mist back in. Shafts of sunlight pierced it from a winter-blue sky, and a steep-hilled island was before them, barely a quarter-league away. They were heading straight for it, moving fast towards a harbour that looked like a beech forest in winter, the masts of a multitude o
f ships like so many leafless trees.
Gregoras let out a whoop. ‘He’s even better than we thought, our captain. For there she lies, our destination, right before us.’
‘It is?’ Grant turned. ‘You never told me where the rendezvous was.’
The other man smiled. ‘Did I not?’ He pointed. ‘It is there.’
‘Aye. And what is its name?’
‘The island of Chios.’
‘What? Chios!’ Grant cried the name, joyfully.
Gregoras smiled at him. ‘Our destination pleases you?’
Grant swallowed, nodded. ‘Never has an unworthy sinner had a prayer answered so quickly. For if I’m to do what you all believe I can, I will need pine resin. And the best, the most stable gum, comes from Pinus halepensis.’ He smiled at Gregoras’s head shake. ‘The Aleppo pine.’ He pointed ahead. ‘This island is covered in them.’
‘Well, I am pleased also.’ Gregoras nodded. ‘I was concerned that my commander may already have set out. But there he sits – that banner at the largest carrack’s masthead proclaims that Giovanni Giustiniani Longo is still here. So let’s to him. You to get your gum, me to claim my gold.’ He clapped the other man on the back. ‘And may the new year bring you such answers to all your prayers.’ He turned to the stairs that led to the hold and their meagre gear.
Grant did not move. ‘The new year?’
‘Aye, man. Today is the first day of it.’ Gregoras smiled at the Scot, a man he’d grown to much like in their three weeks of journeying. ‘Welcome to 1453.’
*
She’d stood on the terrace for a long time, wrapped only in a thin blanket; offered her discomfort as penance, staring at the mist, willing it gone, praying it gone. With the lodos wind strong in the sails, her city was only three days away. She had thought to be back there a week before, to have celebrated Christ’s birth with her children. But someone else would have baked them the sweet chestnut cake, lit the festive candles, sung the songs, intoned the special prayers before the family altar. She was still on Chios, trapped in chill greyness. The room behind her blazed with flame. But it felt colder within than where she kept her vigil. For her husband was there, and he had not spoken to her in three days.
Sofia held her breath, leaned forward, not willing to hope. The mist had played games with her sight before; shapes had appeared in it, demons and angels. People. She’d seen Gregoras there, Gregoras from before, not … as she tried never to imagine him now, as she had seen him only in uneasy dreams. Gregoras as he’d been, laughing, always laughing, and her with him. What had they laughed about so much? She’d never been able to remember. People, she supposed, for he had a wicked mind and a voice shaped for mimicry. And she did too, though she found it hard to imagine, since she laughed only secretly now with her children and she tried not to be wicked with them.
Yes! It was true, the mist that had bewitched the island for ten days was lifting, like a veil drawn back by the hand of God. At its lifting, a vessel appeared, full wind in its sails, driving hard towards the land. She looked at the sky she had not seen for so long, its raw blueness, seeking some hint that this was mere caprice in a pagan god, that Circe would breathe out again and swamp the world once more in grey. But it was going, fleeing … gone. Almost as if it had never been.
She closed her eyes to the sunlight, feeling a bit of warmth in it though it was only the first day of a new year. Breathed deep of the clear, the no-longer-wet air. Then she turned and went back into the room.
‘The mist has lifted.’
Theon, crouched over papers, spectacles on his nose, peered at her. ‘Hmm?’
‘The mist. It is gone.’
‘Good.’ He took his spectacles off, rubbed between his eyes. ‘Then we can get off this rock and go home. We should have left while we could, before this damned fog trapped us.’
‘Yes.’ She stepped towards him. ‘The Genoan was waiting for someone, was he not? That was why he delayed. Do you know if that someone arrived?’
‘How would I?’ he replied sharply. ‘Do you think I make a habit of chatting with … mercenaries?’
The last word was spat with such venom. There was a time – the time of laughter with Gregoras, perhaps – when she would have spoken her feelings, born of several conversations she’d had with him – for Giustiniani liked the dinner-time company of women. She’d have said that behind his roaring surface, the Commander was a courteous, kindly man; that if he took gold, there were few who did not, and he was not one of those who fought only for that. Indeed it was said he had given away nearly all that was meant for his personal coffers to arm his men – his ‘lambs’, as he called them – for their better protection … and to better harm Christ’s enemies. Raised in a family of politicians, married to one, she was bred to recognise deceit. And she could hear none when the Genoan declared, with tears in his eyes, that he would give his life for Constantinople’s cause, which was Christendom’s cause.
Once she would have said it. Not now.
Theon was dressing. Pulling on his boots, flinging a heavy cloak over himself, he went to the door. ‘I will go and make sure we have someone to take our things to the boat before the madness begins. Like all Italians, they will sit on their arses for weeks, then, when they decide to move, rush at it like rams at an opening gate.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Make sure all is ready,’ he ordered, and was gone.
She followed him to the door he’d left open, put a hand upon it. Then, instead of closing it, she stepped out again onto the terrace. The boat she’d seen before had already dropped anchor, and as it did, a smaller skiff was being lowered from its side, men waiting at the rail above to descend a rope ladder and board. Closing her eyes once more to the weak sun, she wondered if the person whom the Commander had waited for had, at the very last minute, arrived.
*
‘I promised you gold, Zoran. I never promised you where I would pay it.’
Gregoras took a breath. ‘We had an understanding, Commander …’
‘Did we?’ Giustiniani swivelled to the two men, constant sentinels on each side. ‘Do you remember any understanding, Amir? You, Enzo?’
The Arab shrugged. The Sicilian spoke. ‘It’s like any mercenary’s wages. You pay when you can. You pay when it’s possible.’
‘I was not offered wages, but—’
‘Exactly.’ Giustiniani ignored him. ‘And it is not possible, right now. I’ve spent all the gold I had.’
Gregoras fought to keep the anger down. ‘On what?’
‘On what?’ The Italian’s eyes widened. ‘You know on what, Zoran. You’ve been on campaign enough to know. On more powder, more armour, more whores and more wine.’ He glared. ‘And on waiting for you to show up two weeks late!’
‘There were … difficulties.’
‘Oh, we heard.’ When Gregoras stared at him, Amir smiled. ‘A fast galliot brought papers from Genoa. They put into Korcula for water and found the island abuzz. Someone had murdered one of their best-loved citizens.’ The grin grew wider. ‘You killed Stanko.’
‘Stanko?’ Giustiniani’s laugh erupted. ‘One of the most vicious pieces of pirate scum that ever drifted over the water. I believe he has six brothers, each as ugly and equally murderous as he. They will seek you out and delight in separating you into various pieces as slowly as possible. Strangely, that mask you wear for concealment makes you distinguishable.’
‘They will not know me …’
‘But they already do, brother,’ Enzo said, shaking his head. ‘Your name – Zoran of Ragusa – has been hailed as the assassin.’
‘How …?’ Then Gregoras saw it, and cursed silently. That sea rat of a skiff owner, the one he’d tossed overboard. He’d known him, a little. The bastard hadn’t drowned but had lived to give him away. ‘Well …’ he shrugged, ‘gold buys good hiding places. I’ll take my chances.’
‘Suffering Christ!’ The Commander threw his huge arms up towards the ceiling. ‘I’ve told you, I have no gold left to pay y
ou with. But I will have … in Constantinople, where we make for as soon as this tide turns. We have been prepared for departure for two weeks.’ His arms lowered and he came round the table and placed them on Gregoras’s shoulders. ‘You know what they say of Constantinople, lad. Even the street signs are made of beaten gold. So my thought is this … you will accompany us there.’
Gregoras squirmed. ‘I will not go.’
The Genoan’s grip tightened. ‘Come with us, help deliver the German and collect your reward.’ He smiled, lowered his head so he could look directly in the other’s eyes. ‘This is not an attempt to recruit you. You will not have to sign the articles and I will feed and wine you out of the regiment’s coffers and from the kindness of my heart. And it will be good to have my lucky token beside me as I take up my latest, my greatest, challenge – at least for a while.’ His eyes moistened. ‘What do you say, lad? Are we really such poor company?’
A part of Gregoras still seethed – from disappointment, from recognition of his own stupidity. From a virulent desire to stick to his vow and never again see the city that had taken his all. But he had been soldier long enough to recognise a fight he could not win. He would have to choose other ground. Besides, for all that they quarrelled, these mercenaries were the closest to family he had, and Giustiniani the nearest to a father.
‘I will … accompany you.’
The other three cheered. Giustiniani changed his grip and hugged Gregoras to his huge chest. Enzo appeared with wine, and the four men pledged ‘Damnation to the Turk’ and drank.
Two flagons later, Amir leaned forward and refilled their goblets yet again. ‘What sort of man is he, this German?’ he asked.
‘For the first three days he sweated out enough liquor to get three regiments of Switzers drunk,’ Gregoras replied. ‘After that, he shook and sweated but drank wine only when there was not water for his thirst, and then in moderation.’ His audience gave a collective shudder as he continued, ‘He talked a lot as well.’
A Place Called Armageddon Page 9